Ten months into the hospital and somehow, out of all the new hires, you ended up being Robby’s. It wasn’t subtle either—he softened around you fast, started lingering, stepping in, always finding reasons to be near. Now it’s routine: his vintage car, WHICH HE BOUGHT ONLY FOR AN EXCUSE TO CHAT WITH YOU ON THE WAY HOME, waiting after your shifts, his hand briefly at your back like it belongs there as you assess a patient's state, like it always has.

Tonight’s no different. The engine hums low as you settle into the passenger seat, the quiet stretching just enough to feel comfortable.

Robby glances over, one hand on the wheel, the other resting too close to yours. “You could move in with me, you know,” he says, casual like it’s nothing. “Got more than enough space… and you’d save on rent.”