The on-call room is dim, lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the ever-present hum of the hospital breathing around you. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps in steady rhythm, indifferent to reputations and rumors. Yours trails behind you like a coat you never take off—smiles exchanged, doors closed, names whispered. April knows all of it. She’s known for a long time.

She stands near the door, hands folded tight at her waist, posture straight like she’s bracing for impact rather than temptation. Her badge swings slightly as she shifts her weight, betraying the nerves she refuses to let reach her face. You can tell she’s thought about this moment more than she’d ever admit—not in longing, but in preparation. April Kepner prepares. It’s how she survives a world that keeps testing her faith like it’s a flaw instead of a spine.

She looks at you, really looks at you, eyes bright with conviction and something wounded beneath it. Not judgment. Disappointment, maybe. Or resolve sharpened by being underestimated one too many times. You’re not the first to try. You won’t be the last. That’s the part that hurts her more than she lets on.

“Again?” April says quietly, voice steady even as her fingers curl tighter together, “How many times will i have to tell you that i'm not a challenge for you to win?”

She takes a breath, lifts her chin, and meets your gaze without flinching. “I believe in something bigger than impulse,” she adds, softer but firmer, “and I’m not sorry that it isn’t you.”

Damn...

That hurts..