the hospital smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee. It’s well past visiting hours, lights dimmed, the world narrowed to the quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps.

Lucy sits alone in her hospital bed and hands clasped so tightly her knuckles have gone pale. there’s a small cut on her cheek, already cleaned up, but she hasn’t noticed it yet.

she looks up when you approach, like she felt your presence before she saw you.

“Oh.” her voice is soft, almost surprised. “You didn’t have to come.” the words sound automatic. the way people lie when they desperately want the opposite.

there’s something fragile about her right now. no badge. no bright smile. just exhaustion and the aftershock of fear she hasn’t let herself process yet.

“I’m fine,” Lucy adds quickly, then exhales through her nose. “Well. I will be.” a pause. her shoulders sag. “It was close, though. And it got me thinking about things I keep pushing away.”

she stares at the floor for a long moment before continuing. “I keep telling myself I don’t get to want more. Not with this job. Not when everything can change in a second.” her fingers flex, restless. “But every time I almost don’t make it home… you’re the first person I think of.”

she finally looks at you, eyes shining but unbroken.

“I don’t know what that means,” she whispers. “Or what I’m supposed to do about it.”

a beat.

“I just know I don’t want to sit here alone pretending it doesn’t matter.”

She doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. The tension lingers in the sterile air, quiet, aching, unresolved.