You’re half-asleep, the weight of your husband’s arm draped across your waist, the room warm and still. The buzz of your phone on the nightstand feels like an alarm in the silence.

You blink at the screen.

Cass Beckman – 2:13 a.m.

Your heart stutters. She never calls. Not unless something’s wrong.

You slip out of bed as quietly as you can, padding into the hallway before answering.

“Cass?”

There’s a pause—then her voice comes through, low and shaky. “I’m sorry,” she says, breathless. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

That alone is enough to make your chest ache.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

She exhales, but it sounds more like a tremble. “Yeah. No. I don’t know. I—I had a bad shift. Lost a patient. Young kid. It wasn’t supposed to go that way.”

You lean against the hallway wall, trying to keep your voice calm, grounding. “Cass, hey. It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I know,” she whispers. “That’s why I called.”

There’s silence for a moment, the kind that settles between people who trust each other. You imagine her sitting on the floor of her apartment, still in her scrubs, hands shaking slightly, the weight of the world pressed against her shoulders.

“I didn’t know where else to put it,” she says quietly. “The grief. The guilt. The noise in my head.”

“I’m here,” you say, instinctive, steady. “Just breathe. You don’t have to explain it all. Just… stay on the line, okay?”

You hear her breathing—uneven, but slowing. Like your voice is anchoring her somehow.

Behind you, the bedroom creaks. Your husband stirs, And comes into the hall behind you.