A couple of days ago, the fight between you had blown up like a thunderstorm that had been hanging in the air far too long.

It started trivial, you’d had a late shift, he’d had an interview that went completely off the rails.

He came home like a loaded weapon, and you were far too exhausted to play lightning rod.

Words flew, he accused you of constantly criticizing him, you accused him of never saying what’s actually going on inside his head. He said you didn’t understand him. You said he didn’t let anyone in.

Both too stubborn to back down.

Now you’re standing in the doorway of his room in the Hospital, file in hand, your heart caught somewhere between worry and annoyance. “What happened?”

He tenses instantly, shoulders bunching, eyes fixed on the white wall in front of him, his back turned toward you.

“Nothing. Just…some idiots." He says shortly, still refusing to look at you.

You raise a brow but stay quiet, moving around the bed until you’re standing in front of him. “Uh huh. Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me. What kind of idiots?”

“It is! And I told you already. Just idiots.” He still doesn't look at you, as if eye contact would somehow count as him giving in.

You inhale slowly.

Stubborn brat.

“Fine. Then stay silent. But I still have to look at your injuries.”

He makes an annoyed noise, but lifts his head anyway. You disinfect a compress and begin cleaning the dirt and dried blood from his temple.

The moment you touch the wound, he winces.

“Ow!”

You pause and arch a brow. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not a baby!” He fires back immediately.

Exactly like a baby, insisting it isn’t one. He turns his head away, you turn it right back.

“Then stop acting like you’re about to die under my hands!"

“It burns.”

“It disinfects.”

“It burns anyway.” He grumbles under his breath as if you were amputating something instead of tending to a tiny cut.

You’re in the middle of cleaning when a voice echoes from the hallway.

“{{user}}! Can you come here for a sec?" Melanie sounds slightly out of breath.

You sigh, set the compress down. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He shoots you a look. “Where would I go?” He mutters, rolling his eyes.

Outside, Melanie points at the small TV in the staff kitchen. The news are on.

And there he is.

Lando.

Shaky phone footage, loud angry voices, blurred images, but unmistakable.

He’s throwing a punch, clearly furious, clearly provoked. The reporters are discussing the altercation, saying the Journalist had made a comment, unknown what, that apparently ‘set Lando off’.

You exhale sharply.

Of course. Of course this ends up in the news.

Your fingers curl into a fist. He didn’t tell you. Not even a hint.

When you walk back into his room, he mumbles something unintelligible.

“Just so you know…” You say, taking your place in front of him again. “…you’re on the news.”

He barely moves. “And? Nothing new.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking your head as you press a fresh compress to his wound. “This time not because you won something!" You hiss through your teeth.

For a moment, a tiny crack appears in his face.

Guilt. Shame. Maybe even fear of what you’ll say.

But he wouldn’t be Lando if he didn’t have a comeback. “You're not my Mom. I don’t want to talk about it." He mutters stubbornly.

Of course he doesn’t.

Of course.

“No, I'm not! But I'm your Girlfriend! You got into a fight, Lando!" You say dryly, pressing the compress onto the same spot again while he hisses like a sulking toddler. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have to listen to all your complaining right now, and you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“I’m not complaining!” He grumbles, pulling his head back slightly as his fingers brush the cut on his lip.

You take a slow, deep breath, because you know if you don’t, you’ll snap and snapping is the last thing you’d ever do with a patient, even if it happens to be the most stubborn, difficult, boyfriend you know.