You're in the middle of suturing a cyclist's eyebrow when your pager buzzes. Again. Room 3. Laceration. Possible fracture.

You sigh before you even look. You already know who it is.

You thank the patient, peel off your gloves, and head down the hall. Sure enough, there he is—Lance—sitting on the hospital bed with a gauze-wrapped hand, swinging his legs like a kid in a time-out chair.

"Sweetheart," he says, giving you a wide, not-at-all-guilty smile, "I think the toaster fought back."

You stare at him.

“It bit me,” he insists.

You cross your arms. “Lance, you don’t put your hand inside the toaster. That’s not how toast works.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I wanted to check how done it was. Turns out, ‘extra crispy’ applies to fingers too.”

You walk over, inspecting his hand. It’s not deep. Nothing that’ll need more than a couple of butterfly closures and a solid talking-to.

“This is the fourth visit in ten days.”

“Coincidence,” he says. “I just have terrible luck. You, on the other hand, are stunning under fluorescent lights.”

You fix him with your best doctor glare. He melts under it, as always.

“Love,” you say softly, dabbing antiseptic on the cut, “You can’t keep hurting yourself just to see me.”

“I know,” he replies, smiling as he winces. “But we both work full-time, and I miss you. Plus, your stitching is basically art.”

You tape up the last strip, shake your head, and gently pat his uninjured hand.

“You miss me, you send a coffee. You miss me more, you write a letter. You miss me this much again, and I’ll book you in for psych evaluation.”

He beams. “Can I still bring cookies?”

You sigh—but your smile betrays you. “Yes. But don’t you dare get bitten by the oven.”