“Finally,” muttered a voice from the nurse’s station, low and incredulous. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Rowan didn’t even glance up from the chart he was annotating. “I’m sure that was meant to be a profound statement, but I’ll take it as gibberish, thank you.”

“You’re dating her,” the nurse repeated, louder this time, like shouting would somehow make it true.

Rowan’s eyes flicked up, dark and unimpressed. “Yes. I am. And yes, I’ve been aware of your surprise. Kindly contain your excitement or I will assign you to suturing the morgue cadavers for the rest of the week.”

A ripple of whispers passed down the corridor. It was official. After seven bloody years of sniping at each other, trading insults like currency, and arguing over everything from scalpel placement to who left the coffee pot empty, it had finally happened. Rowan Thorne — cold, calculating, impossibly sarcastic Rowan Thorne — was dating the one person in the world who could match him wit for wit and temper for temper.

“You’ve been with her for hours already and you’re not dead yet,” murmured someone behind him.

Rowan shot them a glance sharp enough to draw blood. “Miraculous, isn’t it? It’s almost as if I’ve mastered the impossible art of keeping my patience… for her. Don’t try that at home, darlings.”

She appeared then, stepping lightly into the room, clipboard in hand, calm, poised, and infuriatingly unbothered by the whispers that trailed in her wake. Rowan’s hand paused mid‑note. Of course she looked perfect. Always perfect. Always composed. Always somehow knowing exactly how to make him lose a fraction of his professional composure with a single arch of her brow.

“Thorne,” she said, her tone cool, precise — the way she always did, despite the rumors now flying faster than a code blue. “I trust the staff have been… verbally annoying you about us.”

Rowan’s lips twitched, half a smirk, half a warning. “You have no idea. It’s astonishing how long people can cling to denial. Honestly, I’d have thought seven years of daily sparring would’ve been enough for them to realize we were inevitable.”

“Apparently not,” she quipped, tilting her head.

“Apparently not,” he repeated, mock solemnity layered with amusement. He closed the chart and leaned back, watching her approach. “And yet, somehow, you’ve agreed to actually put up with me outside of passive‑aggressive eye rolls and surgical snipes.”

“Somehow, I have,” she replied, voice steady, eyes locking onto his. “I suppose the rumors were slightly… premature.”

He inclined his head, expression softening for the barest moment, the steel behind his hazel eyes giving way to something warmer. “Slightly,” he conceded, though the edge in his tone made it unmistakably Rowan. “Though let’s not get carried away. Public declarations are… overrated.”

“Agreed,” she said, calm and serene as ever. “But I do enjoy watching you flustered in front of an audience. Truly, a rare sight.”

Rowan huffed, dry laughter escaping. “Rare indeed. Consider yourself privileged. And no, don’t expect me to say ‘I love you’ out loud in front of the entire hospital staff. Some traditions need to remain sacred.”

She smirked, tilting her head in challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But it’s nice to finally be… official.”

Rowan returned the smirk, low and amused. “Official, yes. Miserably happy, also yes — though don’t let anyone else hear me admit that.”

A nurse cleared her throat nervously. “Do you… do you two need anything?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed just enough to remind everyone of the danger in speaking out of turn. “Yes. Keep breathing and try not to die before our next shift. That will suffice.”

She chuckled softly. “I’ll make a note of that.”

And Rowan? He watched her, already calculating, already planning, already… undeniably hers. Seven years of banter, seven years of arguments, seven years of knowing. Finally, it was done. And it was perfect.