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The coffee had gone cold three hours ago, forgotten on the nurse’s station counter. Dana Evans swiped her badge against the scanner with more force than necessary, her jaw tight as the doors hissed open.
"You’re bleeding," someone murmured as she passed. She didn’t stop.
The parking garage was dim, the fluorescents flickering overhead in a way that made her temples throb. She fumbled for her keys, fingers brushing the split in her lip, just a little one, nothing serious. The patient had gotten her good, though. A solid right hook during a moment of misplaced trust. Her hands shook as she cranked the ignition, the engine growling to life like an echo of the frustration coiled in her chest.
The apartment was quiet when she finally pushed through the door, toeing off her shoes with a sigh. You looked up from the couch, book half-forgotten in your lap. "Hey," you said softly, then froze. "Jesus, Dana—"
She waved you off before you could stand, dropping her bag on the floor with a thud. "It’s nothing. Just a scratch." But her voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly she was blinking too fast, her breath hitching in a way that had nothing to do with the ache in her face.
"You always say that," you murmured, already crossing the room. Dana let out a shaky exhale as your fingers gently tilted her chin up, inspecting the bruise darkening along her cheekbone. "And it’s never nothing."
Her laugh was watery, eyes glistening under the lamplight. "Guess I’m a terrible liar."
The dam broke then, not with sobs, but with the quiet unraveling of exhaustion. She leaned into your touch, her forehead pressing against your shoulder as her hands fisted in the fabric of your shirt. "I don’t know why I’m like this," she admitted, voice muffled. "I did everything right today. Everything. And it still—" She swallowed hard. "It still went to shit."
You guided her to the couch, your thumb tracing absent circles over her knuckles as she spoke. The words tumbled out—how the patient had been combative from admission, how she’d stepped outside for two minutes just to breathe, how the punch had been less shocking than the way her colleagues barely blinked afterward. "Like it was just part of the job," she whispered.
"But it’s not," you said firmly. Dana’s fingers tightened around yours.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, shoulders sagging like the weight of the entire ward had followed her home. "I keep thinking, if I'd just handled it differently, maybe—"
"You did handle it," you interrupted, catching her wrist before she could pick at the frayed edge of her scrub top. "You followed protocol. You called for backup. Hell, you even got him calmed down before security arrived." Your thumb brushed the pulse point beneath her skin, steady despite the tremor in her fingers. "That’s not failure, Dana. That’s just… humanity being shitty sometimes."
Dana blinked, a single tear escaping down her bruised cheek. You caught it with your thumb before it could reach her jaw. "I hate this," she murmured, voice raw. "Feeling like I’m constantly—" Her hands flexed in the air between you, grasping for a metaphor that wouldn’t come. "Like I’m building sandcastles at high tide."
The analogy hung there, fragile as the way she curled into your side, her head finding its familiar spot against your collarbone. You pressed a kiss to her hairline, tasting salt and the faint chemical tang of hospital disinfectant. "Tell me something good," you said suddenly, fingers combing through the tangled waves at her nape. "One thing that didn’t suck today."
She was quiet for so long you thought she might refuse. Then: "Mrs. Calloway’s daughter brought her that photo album," Dana said, tracing idle patterns on your knee. "The one with the grandkids. She—" A hiccup of a laugh. "She made me sit down and go through every single page. Twice." The memory softened the tightness around her eyes, just slightly. "Kept calling me ‘nurse darling’ like I was part of the family."
The weight of Dana’s exhaustion settled between you like a third presence, heavy but not unwelcome. You shifted just enough to pull her closer, your fingers still tangled in her hair, her breath warm against your neck. "Tell me more about Mrs. Calloway," you murmured, because you knew—knew the way her voice went soft when she talked about the patients who clung to kindness like a lifeline.
Dana sniffed, wiping roughly at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "She asked if I had kids," she said, and the ghost of a smile tugged at her split lip. "When I said no, she patted my arm and said, ‘Good. They’d steal your youth, nurse darling.’ Like she hadn’t just spent twenty minutes bragging about hers."
You chuckled, pressing another kiss to her temple. The lamplight caught the platinum strands in her hair, the faint freckles across her nose usually hidden under layers of fatigue and fluorescent hospital lighting. Here, like this, she looked younger—softer. Less like the woman who could stare down a combative patient without flinching, and more like the one who stole your socks when her feet were cold and forgot to close the fridge door.
Her fingers found yours again, squeezing gently. "I think she just wanted someone to listen," Dana admitted. "Not even about the medical stuff. Just… to be seen, you know?" Her thumb traced the line of your knuckles, slow and absent. "Sometimes I wonder if that’s half the job. Not the charts or the meds. Just… being there."
The unspoken ‘and what if I’m not enough’ lingered in the pause that followed. You turned her hand over in yours, palm up, and pressed your lips to the callus on her thumb—the one from holding pens too tightly during twelve-hour shifts. "You’re always there," you said simply.
Dana let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around yours as if anchoring herself to the moment. The apartment hummed with quiet, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the building settling around them. It was a stark contrast to the chaos she’d left behind at the hospital, and for the first time all day, her shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
"You know," she murmured, her voice rough but steadier now, "Mrs. Calloway also told me I should eat more." A faint smile tugged at her lips as she glanced up at you. "Said I looked ‘peaky.’ Then she tried to force-feed me a granola bar from her purse. Stale, obviously. Probably from the Carter administration."
You laughed, brushing a stray strand behind her ear. "Sounds like her love language is expired snacks and unsolicited life advice."
"Mm. And yet." Dana’s thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, her gaze dropping to where your hands were intertwined. "I let her. Because—" She hesitated, then shrugged, the motion small and vulnerable. "Because it mattered to her. And I guess… it mattered to me, too."
The admission hung between you, quiet but weighty. You shifted, tucking a leg beneath you as you turned to face her fully. "You’re allowed to take things personally," you said softly. "Even when they tell you not to."
Dana’s breath hitched, just once, before she buried her face against your shoulder, her fingers clutching your shirt with a quiet desperation. "I know," she mumbled into the fabric, the words muffled but unmistakable. "I just don’t know how to stop."
You smoothed a hand down her back, feeling the tension coiled beneath her scrubs, the way her ribs expanded with each too-shallow breath. "You don’t have to," you murmured. The words were simple, but they landed like a weight lifted. Dana went still against you, as if she’d been bracing for a reprimand that never came.
The silence stretched, comfortable in its heaviness, until Dana shifted just enough to peer up at you. Her eyelashes were damp, her split lip slightly swollen, but there was something softer in her expression now—less like the woman who’d walked through the door with her shoulders braced for impact, and more like the one who stole the last slice of pizza by claiming it was "for medicinal purposes."
"You’re staring," she accused, though there was no heat in it.
"Just making sure you’re still in there," you said, tapping her temple lightly.
Dana snorted, swatting your hand away with half-hearted effort. "Where else would I be? It’s not like I got hit that hard." But the way her fingers lingered against your wrist betrayed her, the pulse beneath her skin quicker than she’d ever admit.
The couch creaked as you shifted, pulling her legs across your lap. Her socks were mismatched—one striped, one dotted—and you grinned, pinching the fabric at her ankle. "Nice look. Very ‘I dressed in the dark.’"
"Shut up," she muttered, but her toes curled against your thigh, warm even through the denim. "They were clean. That’s all that matters."
You hummed, tracing idle patterns along her calf. "Mrs. Calloway would disagree. She’d say socks are a reflection of the soul."
Dana groaned, tipping her head back against the cushions. "Oh god, don’t encourage her. Next time, she’ll bring me a suitcase full of orthopedic hose and a PowerPoint on proper foot hygiene."
The laugh that escaped Dana was sudden, bright, the kind that startled even her, judging by the way her fingers flew to her split lip in delayed surprise. You watched the tension drain from her shoulders in real time, replaced by something lighter, easier. "Jesus," she muttered, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Didn’t think I still had that in me today."
You squeezed her ankle gently, thumb brushing the delicate bone beneath her sock. "There she is," you murmured, grinning when she rolled her eyes.
Dana exhaled, long and slow, her body melting deeper into the couch cushions. The lamplight caught the grey flecks in her tired eyes, the way her lashes cast faint shadows on her bruised cheek. "I should shower," she said, but made no move to get up.
"You smell like antiseptic and bad decisions," you agreed cheerfully, dodging the half-hearted swat she aimed at your shoulder.
"Asshole," she muttered, but there was no venom in it. Her fingers found yours again, threading through them with a quiet insistence. "I don’t—" She stopped, chewing her bottom lip before continuing. "I don’t want to go back tomorrow."
The words hung between you like a confession, raw and jagged-edged. Dana’s fingers tightened around yours, her nails leaving crescent moons in your palm.
"Then don’t," you said simply, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. "Call in. Take a mental health day. The world won’t end."
Dana blinked, her brow furrowing like she’d never considered the possibility. "I can’t just—"
"You can," you interrupted, standing and pulling her up with you. "Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up."
The bathroom tiles were cool underfoot as you nudged her inside, the mirror fogging almost immediately when you turned the shower on hot. Dana stood motionless by the sink, her reflection fractured by the steam, a woman pieced together by exhaustion and stubbornness.
Dana stared at the steam curling toward the ceiling, her shoulders stiff even as the warmth seeped into the room. "I can do it myself," she muttered automatically, but when you reached for the hem of her scrubs, her fingers trembled too much to protest. The fabric peeled away like a second skin, revealing the mottled bruise blooming across her ribcage,another souvenir from today. Your breath hitched, but she shook her head before you could speak. "Don't. Just—" Her voice cracked. "Just help me get it off."
The water was scalding, just how she liked it, and she stepped under the spray with a shudder that had nothing to do with the temperature. You followed, catching her wrist when she reached blindly for the shampoo—her depth perception shot by exhaustion. "Let me," you murmured, squeezing a dollop into your palm. Dana hesitated, then exhaled sharply through her nose and tilted her head back in surrender.
Your fingers carded through her hair, working the lather into her scalp with slow, deliberate circles. Dana went boneless against you, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as the tension leaked out of her in increments. "Christ," she mumbled into your collarbone, her breath warm against your skin. "When did you get so good at this?"
"Practice," you deadlined, scratching lightly at her nape just to feel her shiver. "Also, you’ve been stealing my conditioner for months. I know exactly how much you need."
She huffed a laugh, the sound muffled by the water sluicing between you. "Busted." Her hands flexed against your hips, not pushing or pulling—just anchoring. Like she’d forgotten how to stand without something to hold onto.
The water turned her hair dark, strands clinging to her shoulders like ink spills as you worked the shampoo through them. Dana exhaled against your collarbone, her breath shuddering out in time with the droplets hitting the tiles. You could feel every ridge of her spine beneath your palms, the way her shoulders dipped forward like a bridge with too much weight. "Easy," you murmured when she flinched at the pressure near her temple—right where the patient’s ring had caught her.
She made a noise low in her throat, half-protest, half-gratitude, as you tilted her head back to rinse. The suds slid down her neck, over the bruises forming along her collarbones, and for a moment she just stood there, eyes closed, letting the water erase the day from her skin.
Your thumb brushed the hinge of her jaw, catching a stray fleck of soap. "Conditioner?" you asked, already reaching for the bottle.
Dana hummed, her fingers flexing against your hips. "The blue one," she mumbled, though you were already squeezing it into your palm.
"Thief," you said lightly, working it through her ends.
Dana exhaled as the conditioner's scent, something absurdly tropical for a woman who claimed to hate coconuts, filled the steam-heavy air. Her shoulders slumped further when your fingers massaged the product into her hair, working from the ends upward with a practiced ease that made her toes curl against the shower floor. "God," she muttered, her forehead still pressed to your shoulder. "That's... obscenely good."
"Told you," you said, flicking water at her nose just to hear her indignant huff. She retaliated by elbowing your ribs—gently, though, mindful of the space between you where the hot water poured down unimpeded.
The silence stretched, comfortable and thick as the humidity clinging to the tiles. Dana’s breath evened out against your skin, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your hipbone where the water had turned your skin slick. "I should’ve taken the blue one sooner," she admitted suddenly, voice muffled by the spray. "It smells like—" She cut herself off with a shake of her head, sending droplets flying. "Never mind. Stupid."
You nudged her chin up with two fingers, grinning at the way her nose scrunched. "Like what?"
Dana glared, but it lacked its usual bite, especially with her hair plastered to her cheeks, her eyelashes clumped together with moisture. "Like that stupid vacation we talked about," she muttered. "The one with the—" She waved a hand vaguely. "The beach. And the—" Another vague gesture. "Whatever."
The steam had softened the edges of everything, the sharp lines of Dana’s shoulders, the tight set of her jaw, even the angry purple bloom of the bruise along her ribs. She leaned into your touch as you toweled her hair, her fingers clutching the edges of the fabric around her waist like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "Bed," you murmured against her temple, pressing a kiss to the still-damp skin there.
Dana made a noise halfway between protest and surrender, her head lolling against your shoulder. "M’fine," she lied, her breath warm against your collarbone.
"You’re swaying," you pointed out, catching her elbow as she reached for her toothbrush and missed by inches.
She scowled, but let you steer her toward the sink anyway, her reflection in the mirror fogged and indistinct. "I could’ve done it myself," she muttered around the toothpaste foam, though the way her fingers trembled against the counter betrayed her.
"Yeah, yeah," you said, plucking the toothbrush from her grip when she nearly dropped it. "And I could’ve let you faceplant into the tiles. Where’s the fun in that?"
Dana spit into the sink with more force than necessary, her shoulders slumping as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Bastard," she mumbled, but there was no heat in it, just exhaustion, the kind that seeped into her bones and made her lean into your side without thinking.
The bedroom was dark when you nudged her through the doorway, the sheets still rumpled from this morning’s hurried exit. Dana hesitated at the foot of the bed, her fingers plucking at the hem of your stolen t-shirt, the one she’d claimed weeks ago and refused to give back. "I should—" She gestured vaguely toward the dresser, where her scrubs were still folded in yesterday’s neat squares. "Chart review. Or—"
You caught her wrist mid-gesture, tugging her toward the mattress. "Or you could lie down before you fall down," you suggested, grinning when she glared at you. The effect was ruined by the way her eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep she’d been denying herself for days.
Dana's fingers curled around the edge of the dresser, knuckles white against the wood grain. "Just—" She swallowed hard, her throat working around the words. "Five minutes. Then I'll—"
The sentence died as your hands settled on her hips, turning her gently away from the pile of unfinished paperwork that somehow made its way home with her. Her resistance was half-hearted at best, her body swaying into your touch like a sapling in a breeze. "Dana," you murmured, pressing your lips to the damp hair at her temple. "The charts can wait."
She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as you guided her backward toward the bed. The mattress hit the backs of her knees, and she sank down with a quiet groan, her palms flat against the sheets like she might push herself back up at any moment.
"You're still wearing socks," you observed, crouching to peel the mismatched pair from her feet. One toe had poked through the fabric, and Dana huffed a laugh when you wiggled the exposed digit. "Disgraceful," she muttered, but her eyes were already sliding shut as you tugged the covers back.
You caught her chin between your thumb and forefinger, tilting her face toward the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The bruise along her cheekbone had darkened to a mottled purple, stark against the pallor of her skin. "Ice pack?" you offered, but Dana shook her head, her fingers curling around your wrist.
"Just—" Her thumb brushed your pulse point, slow and deliberate. "Stay."
The sheets rustled as she shifted, making room for you without ever opening her eyes. You slipped in beside her, the mattress dipping under your weight, and Dana immediately turned into your space,her forehead pressing against your sternum, her knee slotting between yours with practiced ease.
Dana’s exhale warmed the hollow of your throat, her fingers curling loosely in the fabric of your shirt like she was afraid you’d vanish if she let go. The bruise on her cheek looked darker in the low light, a shadow that didn’t belong on her face. You brushed your thumb just beneath it, feather-light, and she leaned into the touch with a quiet sigh, her eyelashes fluttering against your skin.
"Still with me?" you murmured, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
"Mm." The sound was drowsy, half-formed. Her knee nudged yours under the covers, a wordless yes. The lamplight caught the gold flecks in her irises as she blinked up at you, slow as syrup. "Just… thinking."
"About?"
She hesitated, her thumb tracing the hem of your sleeve. "How Mrs. Calloway’s granddaughter drew me in her crayon family portrait today." A huff of laughter ghosted across your collarbone. "Stick figure with a frowny face and a stethoscope. Kid’s got my nose all wrong."
The thought dissolved mid-sentence as her head lolled against your shoulder, her exhale warm and damp through your shirt. You watched the exact moment sleep won, the tension bleeding from her limbs like sand through an hourglass. Her grip on your sleeve slackened, fingers uncurling in surrender.
Outside, a car alarm warbled three floors down. Dana didn’t stir. The bruise on her cheek looked almost blue in the dim light, the split lip slightly parted as her breathing evened out. You brushed a thumb over the back of her knuckles,chapped from too much hand sanitizer, the nails bitten down to quick crescents and felt something in your chest tighten.
Her foot nudged your ankle in her sleep, a habit leftover from nights she’d spent alone in call rooms, subconsciously seeking contact with another body. You shifted just enough to tuck the comforter higher over her shoulders, your palm lingering at the dip of her waist. The clinical smell of the scrubs she’d changed out of lingered—hospital detergent, tainted with too many wash cycles, but beneath it lingered the fading coconut scent of stolen conditioner.
Dana murmured something unintelligible against your collarbone, her nose wrinkling as she burrowed deeper into the pillows. A lock of still-damp hair stuck to her temple, and you carefully peeled it away, grinning when she swatted lazily at your wrist without waking.