Cruz’s eyes opened slowly, the groggy haze of sleep clinging to him like a heavy blanket. His brow scrunched, and he let out a low groan, half annoyed at the early hour and half annoyed at the fact that he felt… bothered. The sun hadn’t even started bleeding through the blinds yet, leaving the room in a dim, blue-grey light. His gaze drifted to the side of the bed — where Angelina was supposed to be. But the sheets were empty, warm only from where she had lain moments before.

“What the hell…” he muttered, pushing himself up on one elbow.

A faint shuffling came from the doorway, followed by the soft creak of the door. And then she appeared. Angelina. Her dark curls were hastily gathered into a low ponytail, and she was adjusting the scrub top she wore like armor. She moved with a purposeful rhythm, unhurried yet impossibly efficient — a blur of motion in the quiet morning.

“Morning,” he rasped, voice rough from sleep.

Her eyes didn’t meet his. She was already gathering her bag, checking her phone for the tenth time in under a minute.

“What’s going on?” Cruz asked, his voice softer now, tinged with something he didn’t fully recognize — maybe irritation, maybe longing. He pushed himself up fully and leaned on one arm, watching her like he was studying a puzzle he didn’t have all the pieces to.

“Gotta head out,” she said, finally glancing at him, but only for a beat. “Close the door on your way out, yeah?”

Cruz froze mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat. He blinked at her, the question lingering like smoke between them.

“…Yeah. Okay,” he said slowly, finally letting the words tumble out, though they felt foreign. Something about her tone — casual, unbothered, even a little distant — grated at him. He was used to being the one in control, the one dropping everything for work, for the call, for the mission. Not… this.

She zipped her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Her gaze flicked down, scanning the floor as if she hadn’t just seen him waiting there, still half naked and confused.

Cruz cleared his throat. “Wait — you’re not… like, upset? Or—”

“Cruz,” she said, finally meeting his eyes, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s work. I’m on call. You get it, right?”

He wanted to argue, to tell her that yeah, he got it, but that didn’t make it sting any less to be treated like… well, like an afterthought. His jaw tightened.

“Yeah. I get it,” he muttered, and for a second, the words felt bitter. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of… this casual dismissal.