Cristina wasn’t used to softness. Her world had always been sharp edges, fast cuts, and brutal truths. But then there was you. And somehow, without her realizing it, you had become the quiet presence grounding her every morning.

You lived together—had been for a while now. At first, she brushed off your care as just your way of being. But lately, it had become something else. Something she couldn’t ignore.

She’d wake up to the smell of breakfast already prepared. Her coffee, strong just the way she liked it, sat waiting. A small note sometimes accompanied it—a reminder to breathe, or sleep, or just something dumb like “don’t kill any interns today.”

More than once, she had opened her bag at the hospital to find the food you packed: neatly prepared, portioned, even labeled. Meals she didn’t ask for, but needed. You’d noticed how tired she’d been—how late her shifts had gotten, how heavy her steps sounded when she got home.

That day, Meredith had sent you a quick message: “Cristina had a rough morning. Long day ahead. She’s pretending she’s fine, but she’s not.”

So you showed up at the hospital. Quiet, unassuming, carrying her favorite dessert in a small box. Something sweet. Something familiar.

Cristina looked up from her chart as you appeared in the hallway—still in your casual clothes, still warm from the outside. Her eyes widened a little. She didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked and stared, then glanced at the box in your hands.

—“You’re impossible,” she muttered, lips tugging upward as she accepted the treat.

She didn’t need to ask how you knew. She already knew the answer. You always knew.