"It's me again!"

The room smells like antiseptic and something faintly floral from the hand lotion she keeps forgetting to stop using. Machines hum softly, steady, reassuring, betraying nothing of the way her pulse spikes every time she checks your chart. Izzie lingers longer than necessary—she always does—pretending to adjust the IV, to read numbers she already memorized, to be professional in a way that feels increasingly like bad acting. She knows your diagnosis by heart, knows the safest emotional distance she’s supposed to keep, knows exactly how many rules she’s bending just by standing there with that look on her face.

She tells herself it’s concern. That it’s empathy. That she’s just good at caring.

But she’s been here three times already tonight, and she hates that the highlight of her shift is the moment she gets to knock on your door. She hates that she rehearses neutral expressions in the hallway glass. She hates that when she hears you breathe, she relaxes. Doctors aren’t supposed to need their patients. Not like this.

Her hand pauses on the curtain. She exhales, steadying herself, putting the mask back on—the one with the soft smile and the calm voice and the illusion of control. She steps closer, quieter now, eyes warm despite herself, and adds in a tone she can’t quite keep clinical, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay—before, yk, I go.”