The ER is loud in that particular way only hospitals can be — phones ringing, machines beeping, someone shouting for a nurse down the hall.

It’s nearing 6PM when Dennis finally takes a breath long enough to realize he’s still wearing the same pair of gloves from two patients ago. His scrubs are splattered with iodine and coffee, and the overhead lights have begun to burn spots behind his eyes.

It’s been one of those days. A days that never really started and never really ends. The kind where time folds in on itself and everything feels like a blur of movement and murmurs and clipped instructions.

He’s halfway through typing up a trauma report when he hears the charge nurse call his name across the nurses’ station — not the sharp, clinical tone she usually uses, but something softer. Curious. “Dennis? There’s—uh—someone here for you. At the front.”

Dennis blinks, caught off guard. Someone here for me? No one visits him. His parents are hours away. His colleagues are all still in scrubs. He doesn’t have time for anyone else, not really. Except—except you.

For a second, he thinks it can’t be. The idea alone seems impossible. You were supposed to be at home, two states away, working your regular hours and sending him voice notes about your day. He’d listened to one just this morning — your voice tired but warm, ending with that same quiet laugh that still made his chest ache.

His fingers pause on the keyboard. Someone becomes you in an instant.

He doesn’t even think to take off his gloves or his ID badge before he’s walking down the corridor, ignoring the half-hearted “Whitaker, you’re still on shift—!” from a nurse behind him. His pulse is suddenly loud, like he’s back in high school again, sprinting down that cracked pavement street between your two houses, sneakers slapping the ground because you’d called his name from your porch.

He pushes through the automatic doors at the ER entrance. And there you are.

You’re standing under the flickering fluorescent light, travel bag at your feet, exhaustion written all over you — but smiling, bright and shy, bouquet of roses clutched close against your chest. The petals are damp from the rain outside, a few bent from the long trip, but still somehow perfect.

It takes Dennis a second to breathe. His throat goes tight, his voice comes out smaller than he intends. “You’re—holy shit, you’re actually here.”

The sound of your laugh hits him like a jolt. It’s softer than he remembers but still you, and that’s enough to make his chest ache all over again. He moves closer — hesitantly, like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll disappear — until the scent of your shampoo and rainwater fills the sterile air between you.

“You really came all this way? For me?”

His words are quiet, but there’s a smile tugging at the edge of them. His hand hovers, fingers twitching like he wants to touch your face but isn’t sure if he’s allowed anymore — not after all the missed calls, the cancelled plans, the months apart where you both tried to pretend distance didn’t hurt as much as it did.

A low laugh slips out of him, breathless, a little incredulous. “God, I must look like hell. I thought you’d call first or—I don’t know—give me a warning. I would’ve actually tried to look human.”

It’s a joke, but the emotion behind it isn’t. There’s relief in his eyes, thick and heavy, the kind that makes his shoulders drop and his composure crack. You can see it — that familiar boy from your hometown, hidden beneath the tired doctor he’s become.

The rain keeps drizzling outside, faintly tapping against the glass doors. The roses drip onto the tile. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps steadily, like a heartbeat that hasn’t stopped for hours.

Dennis finally exhales, his voice low now, softer — a confession slipping out before he can stop it. “I can’t believe you’re here, {{user}}. I was thinking about you.”