The room was dark except for the thin spill of streetlight cutting across the bed. You lay on your side, back to the door, staring at nothing. You hadn’t turned on a lamp. You hadn’t moved since you came in.

The argument still rang in your ears—sharp words, unfinished sentences, the way his voice had cracked when he tried to explain himself and failed.

You heard the door open.

Not slammed. Not hurried.

Careful.

You didn’t turn at first. You didn’t have to. You knew it was him.

John leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. He still wore his scrubs, wrinkled from a long shift, hair mussed in that way that usually made you smile. Tonight, it just hurt.

He watched you for a long moment.

“You’re still awake,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Wasn’t planning on sleeping.”

A beat.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he murmured.

You turned then—slowly—just enough to look at him over your shoulder. Your face was calm, but your eyes weren’t.

“Which part?” you asked. “The part where you pushed me away, or the part where you acted like I don’t get a say because I’m not a doctor?”

He flinched. Barely, but you saw it.

“That’s not—” He stopped himself, exhaled. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what you said.”

Silence settled between you, thick and uncomfortable. The kind that only happens when two people care too much and don’t know how to fix it.

John rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion finally winning.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low. “And when I’m scared, I get stupid. I get… sharp.”

You softened despite yourself. Just a fraction.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you said. “I need you to let me stay.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Like the argument had stripped something raw open in him.

“I don’t know how to protect you,” he said. “Not from this job. Not from me.”

You sat up, pulling the sheet around you, meeting his gaze fully now.

“Then stop trying to do it alone.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

John pushed off the doorframe and took a step closer. Then stopped—like he was asking permission without saying the words.

“Can I sit?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, not touching. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For all of it.”

You closed your eyes for a second, then leaned your forehead gently against his shoulder.

“Next time,” you murmured, “we fight better.”

A small, breathless sound left him—half laugh, half relief.

“Deal.”