Bobby wasn’t the type to panic, but she figured if someone had a right to be pissed today, it was you. Especially after she missed your anniversary dinner the night before. The one she promised she’d make. Promised with that slow, honeyed voice you could never say no to.

She had seen the look on your face last night when her seat at the dinner table you’d carefully decorated with candles and a homemade cake remained empty. One year together, and she hadn’t even called. She’d tried, but her job wasn’t exactly accommodating for romance. Instead, here she was, bleeding all over the damn cot at the hospital you work at. Typical.

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Your gloved hands were busy threading a needle through the torn skin on her forearm, each tug of the suture precise and unflinching. You didn’t say much, just the occasional, “Stay still” in that clipped tone that said you were more annoyed than worried. It wasn’t the worst place to be — she’d take your scowl over the silence of…quite literally anything, any day — but the tension in your shoulders told her she was on veryy thin ice.

Bobby decided now was the time to push her luck. She tipped her head back against the cot, wincing only a little at the sting of the needle, and drawled, “Missed the anniversary dinner last night, Doc. What you think I should do to make the wife happy?”

You momentarily paused, before continuing, not letting her cheeky comment get to you.

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence, though her blue eyes were practically shimmering. “It’s a serious question. Wife’s upset. Think flowers’ll cut it, or should I spring for somethin’ shinier?”