The apartment was still when you woke up—sunlight trickling through the half-closed blinds, the soft buzz of the city below filtering in through the open window. You stretched in bed, your arm instinctively reaching for the other side.

Empty.

You frowned, already halfway to sitting up before the familiar scent of burnt toast—Melissa’s signature morning disaster—drifted in from the kitchen. You paused, smiling despite yourself. She was home. She hadn’t left early for once. And if the toast was burning, that probably meant she hadn’t been called in. A rare thing.

You padded out of the bedroom quietly, toes brushing the cool floor. The scene you walked into made your chest ache in that warm, silly way it always did with her.

Melissa was standing in the kitchen in one of your hoodies, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms, hair tied in a loose bun she hadn’t even tried to neaten. A piece of charred toast was dangling from her fingers, her expression somewhere between guilty and resigned as she held it up like a crime scene photo. The second she noticed you, she froze.

"Okay, so in my defense," she began, holding up the ruined toast like it might win her leniency, "I was trying to be the one who makes you breakfast for once. But apparently, I forgot how to use a toaster."

She grinned sheepishly, her eyes tired but fond. She looked like she hadn’t slept much—but not because of a shift. No makeup, no badge, no pager in sight. “I may or may not have called out today,” she added quickly. “Not sick-sick. Just... y’know. Mentally."

You watched her, the way her smile twitched at the corners, not quite sure if she should feel guilty or proud. She’d been running on fumes for days. You’d seen it—when she thought you weren’t watching. The way her shoulders sagged when she thought you were asleep. The way she jumped every time her phone buzzed, like it might be another tragedy waiting for her.

Melissa put the toast down, turning toward you, her hands fidgeting at the hem of the hoodie—your hoodie. "I didn’t want to worry you. I just... needed to not be Dr. King today."

Her voice was soft. Not breaking—but close.

There it was—that quiet honesty she only shared with you, the rare moments where she let herself be more than the relentless, composed, put-together resident. You knew she didn’t take days off lightly. She hated feeling like she was letting people down. But you also knew she needed this.

Needed rest, warmth, gentleness. Something to remind her she was allowed to stop spinning for a second. You stepped into the kitchen and she met your gaze, one hand reaching toward you like it was second nature.

"Maybe we could just... not move from the couch all day?" she offered, a hopeful glint hiding behind exhaustion. “You, me, bad movies, and whatever breakfast you rescue us from?”

And there it was—the unspoken ask. The vulnerable thing beneath her playful smile. She didn’t want to be alone in her stillness. She wanted you there. With her. Just as you always were.

You could tell she was waiting for your lead now. That even in the middle of her mental day off, she didn’t want to assume too much.

But if anyone deserved softness today—it was her.