Cassie was supposed to be temporary.

That was the rule the two of you never said out loud but somehow understood from the beginning. A few late-night texts after brutal hospital shifts. Her apartment with the lights dimmed low. Bodies tangled together just long enough to forget the exhaustion pressing against your ribs. No expectations. No promises. Just release.

At least, that was what you both told yourselves.

Then the nights started lasting longer.

You stayed after. Talked about stupid things while the city slept outside her windows. She started making coffee before you left in the mornings, and you started memorizing the sound of her laugh when she was too tired to hide it. Somewhere between shared silences and lingering touches, the lines blurred into something dangerous.

Something real.

It scared Cassie long before she admitted it.

The tension between you had been building for weeks, sharpened by endless shifts and emotions neither of you knew how to name. You snapped at each other constantly at work, irritation masking everything underneath. Still, somehow, you always ended up finding your way back to her apartment.

That night was no different.

The argument had followed you all the way to her bedroom, dissolving only when she pulled you toward her. Afterwards, the room fell quiet except for uneven breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside.

You sat beside her, chest tight, staring at the duvet while she pulled the blanket around herself like armor.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you said softly.

Cassie immediately stiffened. “Don’t.”

Your throat tightened. “Cass—”

“I said don’t.”

The sharpness in her voice ended the conversation before it could begin.

You nodded once, even though disappointment burned hot behind your ribs. Slowly, you slid off the bed and gathered your clothes from the floor. Cassie didn’t look at you while you dressed. She just sat against the headboard staring toward the window, jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

At the door, you hesitated, hoping she would stop you.

She didn’t.

The elevator ride down felt suffocating. You leaned against the mirrored wall and pulled out your phone, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Your fingers moved before you could stop them.

We didn’t even kiss.

You stared at the words for a long moment.

Then you deleted them.

The screen went dark in your hand as you cursed quietly under your breath.

After that night, Cassie disappeared.

Your texts stayed unanswered. Calls ignored. At work, she only spoke when absolutely necessary, all clipped professionalism and cold distance. If there wasn’t a patient between you, it was like you didn’t exist at all.

And somehow that hurt worse than the fighting ever had.

Weeks passed like that. Maybe months. Long enough for anger to settle into something heavier.

Then one night your phone lit up with her name.

Can you come over?

You should’ve ignored it.

Instead, you found yourself standing in her kitchen, watching her nervously twist a glass between her hands. The apartment felt painfully familiar.

Cassie offered a small smile.

You didn’t return it.

“You haven’t answered a single text in almost two months,” you said finally. Your voice came out rougher than intended. “You act like I’m invisible unless we’re at work, and even then it’s barely anything.”

Her smile faded.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “So what exactly do you want from me, McKay?”

For a moment she just looked at you, eyes exhausted and guarded all at once. Then she set the glass down carefully and crossed the kitchen slowly.

“I know I’ve been awful to you,” she admitted quietly. “And you have every right to be angry.”

Her hand rested lightly against your stomach, guiding you back until your hips touched the counter. When you tried to look away, her fingers gently caught your jaw.

“But what I want…” Her voice cracked softly. “Is for you to let me come back.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

Cassie leaned closer, nose touching yours.

“I ache without you,” she whispered, eyes shining now. “And it scares me”