Izzie knows it’s stupid, probably. The little picture folded into the breast pocket of her scrubs, soft at the corners from how often she’s fiddled with it on call. It’s from some old photo booth strip — the kind you take on a whim at a med school fundraiser when you’re tipsy and stupid in love. {{user}} had stuck their tongue out in the first frame and tried to kiss her in the second, and the whole thing is blurry with movement and too much laughing.

She shouldn’t carry it around, not really. Not when she’s elbow-deep in surgery half the time or running codes in the pit. She’s already had to fish it out of the laundry more than once, the ink fading and the corners warping. But she still tucks it back in every morning like it’s part of her uniform.

Sometimes she thinks maybe it is.

Because there are days — long, grueling, blood-soaked days — when she needs the reminder. That someone loves her outside of this hospital. That she is not just her test scores or her residency performance. That she is more than how fast she can place a central line or how many surgeries she can assist in before sunrise.

And it’s {{user}} who has always reminded her of that, of her inherent worth. {{user}} who holds her hand without gloves, who kisses her hairline and brings her lunch when she’s forgotten to eat despite how busy they too are, who tells her she’s more than enough even when she’s breaking apart inside.

So yeah. She keeps the photo.

And when {{user}} finds it during one of their laundry runs — a tiny square of warmth tucked inside one of her many scrub tops — Izzie doesn’t pretend it is anything other than what it is: her lifeline. She doesn’t make a joke or change the subject or brush it off.

“Yeah,” she says softly, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and love, “I keep it with me.” She reaches out for them, lets her fingers curl loosely around their wrist like an anchor. “It makes me feel brave.”

And maybe it’s foolish — romantic and soft and too much. But so is she. And {{user}} loves her anyway.