❀

The first time you understood that loving Trinity Santos was going to ruin you, it wasn’t because of anything she said, but because of everything she didn’t.

It was late, one of those shifts that seemed to stretch beyond the limits of time, the hospital suspended in that strange in-between where exhaustion blurred into adrenaline, and you had been restocking a crash cart when she walked in, her presence cutting through the room like something precise and deliberate, like every movement she made had already been calculated three steps ahead. She didn’t notice you at first, too focused on scrubbing her hands, the ritual almost violent in its intensity, like she could wash away more than just blood if she tried hard enough, and you stood there longer than you should have, watching the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened, the faint tremor in her fingers that she disguised by moving faster, harder, like speed could replace control. You knew better than to interrupt, knew the hierarchy here wasn’t just about titles but about distance, about knowing your place and staying in it, but there was something about her that always pulled you closer than you were allowed to be, something that made you forget, even if just for a second, that she existed in a world far above yours.

She looked up eventually, catching your reflection in the glass, and everything shifted in that quiet, dangerous way it always did when your eyes met, like the air between you grew heavier, charged with something neither of you had ever dared to name out loud, and for a moment she didn’t look like the surgeon everyone else saw, didn’t look like the woman who commanded operating rooms with a voice that never wavered, she just looked tired, and young, and unbearably human in a way that made your chest ache. There was a softness there, fleeting but real, something that belonged only to the spaces where no one else was watching, and it made you wonder how many pieces of herself she had buried beneath the weight of her own expectations.

“You’re still here,” she said, her voice quieter than you had ever heard it, like it didn’t belong in the same world as the sharp, controlled tone she used everywhere else, and you almost smiled at the absurdity of it, because of course you were still there, because you were always still there, orbiting her in ways you pretended were accidental.

“So are you,” you replied, and it came out softer than you intended, something dangerously close to fond, and you saw it, the way it landed, the way her gaze flickered, the way her composure slipped just enough to let you see the crack beneath it.

It was always like this, small moments stretched thin with everything you couldn’t say, every conversation balanced on the edge of something deeper, something reckless, something that would ruin both of you if it ever crossed the line from implication into reality, and maybe that was why you stayed, why you let it happen over and over again, because as long as it remained unspoken, it wasn’t real, and if it wasn’t real, it couldn’t be taken away from you.

But then there were nights like that one.

The power flickered just once, barely noticeable to anyone else, but enough to plunge the room into a brief, disorienting darkness, and when the lights came back on, you were closer to her than you remembered moving, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, her hand still hovering in the air like she had reached for something and stopped herself at the last second. You could feel the heat radiating off her, could see the way her chest rose and fell just a little too fast, and for a second, just one second, it felt like the world had narrowed down to the space between you, like nothing else existed outside of it.

“Don’t,” she said, but it didn’t sound like a command, didn’t sound like anything she would say in an operating room or a hallway full of people, it sounded like a plea, quiet and strained and threaded with something that made your heart stutter.

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, but you both knew that wasn’t true, because just standing there, just looking at her like that, it was already too much, already crossing lines that had been drawn long before either of you acknowledged them.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second, and it felt like being set on fire, like every nerve in your body was suddenly aware of itself, hyperfocused, waiting, and you hated how much you wanted her to close that distance, how much you wanted her to stop being careful, to stop being responsible, to just choose you for once without thinking about the consequences.

But Trinity Santos had built her entire life on consequences.

The lights stabilized, the moment shattered, and just like that she stepped back, the softness gone, replaced by something colder, something distant and impenetrable, the version of her that belonged to the hospital, to the reputation she had fought too hard to risk, and you felt it like a physical loss, like something had been taken from you before you even had the chance to hold it.

“Get some rest,” she said, her voice clipped now, professional, like the last thirty seconds had never happened, like you hadn’t just seen something real in her eyes.

You wanted to laugh, or scream, or do anything that might crack that perfect composure she hid behind, but instead you just nodded, because that was what you always did, you stayed in your place, you played your role, you let her retreat into the safety of her distance while you stayed behind with everything she left unsaid.

It got worse after that.

Not in a way anyone else would notice, not in a way that could be pointed out or proven, but in the quiet, insidious way it seeped into everything, into the way she avoided being alone with you, into the way her gaze lingered just a second too long before snapping away, into the tension that coiled between you whenever you stood too close, like something alive and dangerous that neither of you knew how to handle. She became sharper in public, more precise, more controlled, as if overcompensating for the moments where she almost wasn’t, and you learned to read the signs, learned to recognize when she was on the edge of slipping, when she was one misstep away from breaking the careful balance she had constructed around herself.

And still, you stayed.

Because for every moment she pulled away, there was another where she let you see her, really see her, in ways no one else did, like the night she fell asleep sitting up in the on-call room, her head tilted awkwardly against the wall, exhaustion finally winning over sheer willpower, and you had stood there longer than you should have, just watching her, memorizing the way she looked when she wasn’t holding herself together so tightly, the way her face softened in sleep, the way she seemed younger, almost fragile in a way that felt impossible when she was awake.

You had covered her with a blanket, careful not to wake her, your fingers brushing her shoulder just briefly, and even that had felt like too much, like crossing into territory you weren’t allowed to exist in, but you couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to take care of her in the small, insignificant ways you were permitted.

She never mentioned it.

But the next day, when she handed you a cup of coffee exactly the way you liked it, without asking, without explanation, you knew.

That was the worst part, maybe, the quiet understanding between you, the way you both knew exactly what this was and exactly why it couldn’t be anything more, the way you kept circling each other without ever colliding, drawn together by something stronger than logic but held apart by everything that mattered.

It came to a head on a night that felt like every other and nothing like them at all.

The hospital was chaos, a multi-casualty incident flooding the ER with more patients than it could handle, the air thick with urgency, voices overlapping, machines beeping in frantic, uneven rhythms, and you barely had time to think, to breathe, to exist outside of the constant motion of it all. Trinity was everywhere at once, commanding, decisive, untouchable in the way she moved through it, her focus absolute, her emotions locked away behind the steady precision of her hands.

You watched her from across the room, the way you always did, even when you shouldn’t, even when there were a hundred other things demanding your attention, because some part of you was always anchored to her, always aware of where she was, of what she was doing, of whether or not she was okay.

She wasn’t.

You saw it in the way her hands hesitated just slightly before making an incision, in the way her shoulders tensed, in the way her breathing became just a little too shallow, and it scared you, because Trinity Santos didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter, didn’t allow herself the luxury of doubt.

Not until now.

“Trinity,” you said before you could stop yourself, stepping closer, your voice cutting through the noise just enough to reach her, and for a moment, just a moment, everything else fell away.

She looked at you like she was drowning.

It was subtle, barely there, but you saw it, the crack in her composure, the flicker of something desperate and terrified and human, and it hit you all at once, the realization that she was reaching her limit, that the weight she carried so effortlessly for everyone else was finally starting to crush her.

“I’ve got it,” she said quickly, too quickly, already turning back to the patient, already shutting you out, and you knew that tone, knew what it meant, knew that this was where you were supposed to step back, to let her handle it, to trust her the way everyone else did.

But you weren’t everyone else.

“Let someone else take over for a minute,” you insisted, quieter now, but no less firm, your hand brushing her arm before you could stop yourself, and the contact sent something electric through both of you, sharp and undeniable.

She froze.

For a second, everything stopped, the noise, the movement, the chaos, it all faded into the background, leaving just the two of you standing too close, feeling too much, and you saw it again, that same look, that same unbearable mix of longing and restraint that had been building between you for so long.

“You can’t do that,” she said, but it wasn’t about the patient, wasn’t about the situation, it was about you, about this, about everything you weren’t supposed to be to her.

“I’m not asking as staff,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper now, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your ribs, “I’m asking as me.”

That was the problem.

There was no space for “you” in her world.

Her jaw tightened, her eyes searching yours like she was trying to memorize something she knew she couldn’t keep, and for one reckless, impossible second, you thought she might give in, might finally let herself have this, have you, consequences be damned.

But then someone called her name, sharp and urgent, and just like that the moment was gone.

She stepped back, the distance snapping back into place like it had never been broken, her expression shifting, hardening, the walls going back up faster than you could process, and it felt like losing something you never even had.

“Get back to work,” she said, her voice steady again, controlled, and it hurt more than anything else she could have said, because it meant she had chosen, she had made the decision you both knew was coming, the one she would always make.

You stood there for a second too long, watching her turn away, watching her disappear back into the chaos, into the role she would never abandon, and something in your chest ached with a dull, familiar persistence, like a wound that refused to heal.

Later, when the hospital finally quieted, when the last patient had been stabilized and the adrenaline had worn off, you found yourself back in that same corridor, the sterile white walls closing in around you, the hum of the building settling back into its usual, suffocating rhythm.

She was there, of course.

She always was.

Standing by the window this time, her reflection faint against the dark glass, her posture rigid in a way that told you she was holding herself together by sheer force of will, and for a moment you considered walking away, considered leaving things as they were, unfinished but intact, because at least then you wouldn’t have to hear it, wouldn’t have to face the reality of what this was.

But you were so tired of almosts.

“Does it ever get easier?” you asked quietly, your voice echoing just slightly in the empty hallway, and she didn’t turn around, didn’t move, but you saw the way her shoulders tensed, the way the question landed exactly where you intended it to.

“No,” she said after a moment, and there was something raw in it, something unguarded, “it doesn’t.”

You swallowed, your throat tight, your chest aching with everything you had been holding back for so long, and you took a step closer, then another, closing the distance just enough to feel like you weren’t completely alone in this.

“We could stop,” you said, even though you didn’t mean it, even though the thought of it felt worse than anything else, “we could just… not do this anymore.”

She laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, just something hollow and tired and painfully real.

“You know we won’t.”

And that was the truth of it.

You wouldn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

Because despite everything, despite the distance and the rules and the way she kept choosing a life that didn’t have room for you in it, she still looked at you like you were something she needed, something she couldn’t quite let go of, and that was enough to keep you there, to keep you coming back, to keep you loving her in all the ways you weren’t allowed to.

She finally turned then, her eyes meeting yours, and the weight of it hit you all over again, the gravity of everything unsaid, everything impossible, everything that existed only in the spaces between what was and what could never be.

“I can’t lose this,” she said quietly, gesturing vaguely to the hospital, to her career, to the life she had built piece by piece, “I worked too hard for it.”

“I know,” you replied, because you did, because that was the whole problem, because loving her meant understanding exactly why she would never choose you.

Her gaze softened, just slightly, just enough to let you see the regret beneath it, the apology she would never say out loud, and it broke something in you in a way that felt permanent.

“If things were different—”

“They’re not,” you cut in gently, because you couldn’t let her finish that sentence, couldn’t let her give you a version of reality that didn’t exist, “and they’re not going to be.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and unyielding, filled with everything you couldn’t fix, everything you couldn’t change, everything you had to live with.

She nodded eventually, a small, almost imperceptible movement, like accepting something she had been fighting for a long time, and you realized then that this was it, this was all it was ever going to be, these stolen moments, these quiet confessions that never quite turned into anything more, this constant, aching proximity to something you could never have.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and it sounded like both a promise and a goodbye.

You forced a smile, even though it felt fragile, even though it didn’t quite reach your eyes, and you nodded, because what else was there to do?

“Yeah,” you said softly, “you will.”

And as you walked away, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the endless stretch of corridor ahead of you, you felt it again, that familiar, aching realization that loving her wasn’t something that would end, not really, it would just continue like this, quiet and consuming, a slow unraveling that no one else would ever notice.

Because she would keep saving lives.

Jack Abbot had never believed in timing, not in the kind people romanticized or wrote about, not in the idea that two people could simply meet at the right moment and everything would fall into place as if life had been quietly aligning itself just for them. His world didn’t work like that, and neither did The Pitt. There was nothing poetic about fluorescent lights that never turned off, about blood that never fully washed away, about the way loss lingered in the air long after a patient was gone. Everything here was messy, complicated, unfinished, and most of all, heavy.

And then there was you, who somehow existed in that same space without letting it hollow you out.

You weren’t naive. That was the part that unsettled him the most. You saw everything he saw, you stood in the same rooms, watched the same monitors flatline, heard the same cries from families in waiting areas, and yet you didn’t let it turn you into something closed off or distant. You still spoke gently to patients. You still found ways to smile. You still believed that what you were doing mattered in a way that went beyond survival rates and statistics.

Jack noticed it in ways he didn’t want to admit. He noticed how your presence changed the tone of a room, how people relaxed just a little when you spoke, how even he felt steadier when you were nearby. It wasn’t dramatic or obvious, but it was there, and that was enough to make him start pulling away before it could become something he couldn’t control.

He told himself it was because you deserved better. Someone lighter, someone who hadn’t already been worn down by years in a place like this, someone who wouldn’t look at you and immediately think about everything that could go wrong.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable unless someone was paying close attention. He stopped lingering near you after shifts, stopped initiating the small conversations that had once come so easily. He kept things professional, efficient, distant in a way that felt deliberate but never openly acknowledged. If you stood too close, he found a reason to move. If you looked at him like you wanted to say something more, he gave you just enough to shut the moment down without making a scene.

You noticed, of course. You always did because you knew him. And eventually, you asked.

There was a night when you finally said something, leaning against the nurses’ station with your arms crossed, watching him instead of whatever chart he was pretending to focus on. You didn’t look angry or upset, just thoughtful, like you were trying to understand something that didn’t quite add up.

“Did I do something?” you asked, your voice calm but steady.

He didn’t look up. “No.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

You let out a quiet breath, the kind that suggested you didn’t believe him but weren’t ready to argue about it yet. “You are, but okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push.”

That was the thing about you. You gave people space even when you deserved answers. You trusted that if something mattered, it would be said eventually.

Jack used that against you without meaning to.

He let the distance grow, convincing himself that it was the right thing to do. Every time he saw you laughing with someone else or focusing on your work with that same unwavering attention, he told himself he was protecting you. You didn’t need someone like him complicating things. You didn’t need someone who had already been worn down by this place, someone who didn’t believe in the same things you still held onto so easily.

The breaking point came on a night that felt too familiar, the kind of shift where everything seemed to pile up at once and there was no time to breathe. A patient didn’t make it, a kid not much younger than you, and Jack saw the way it affected you even though you tried to hold it together. Your hands were steady when they needed to be, your voice controlled, your movements precise, but there was something beneath all of it that he recognized immediately because he’d felt it too many times before.

You stepped outside for air, and he followed without thinking.

You were sitting on the curb, your posture slightly slumped, your gaze fixed somewhere distant. When he approached, you didn’t seem surprised, just aware.

“He wasn’t supposed to die,” you said quietly.

“They never are,” he replied, but the words sounded empty even to him. “But there is nothing else you can do.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him in a way that made it clear you weren’t going to let that answer stand. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

He didn’t argue, because you were right.

There was a moment of silence before you spoke again, your tone shifting just enough to make it clear that this wasn’t only about the patient anymore. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He exhaled slowly, already feeling the conversation slipping into territory he had been trying to avoid. “I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t do that,” you said, your voice still calm but firmer now, you were getting angrier.

“Do what?”

“Pretend like I don’t deserve a real answer.”

That landed harder than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true.

He finally looked at you, and for a second, he considered telling you everything, explaining the thoughts that had been running in circles in his head for weeks. Instead, he chose the version that would push you away cleanly, the version that would hurt enough to make you let go.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.

Your expression shifted, confusion mixing with something more guarded. “What isn’t?”

“This. Whatever this is.”

You let out a small, disbelieving breath. “There is no ‘this,’ Jack. At least not officially. There never was.”

“Exactly.”

The response didn’t land the way he expected. Instead of ending the conversation, it only made your gaze sharpen, like you were trying to understand how something that had felt so real could be dismissed so easily.

“Then why does it feel like there was?” you asked.

He didn’t answer that, because he couldn’t.

“You deserve better,” he said instead, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew they sounded like an excuse.

Your reaction wasn’t immediate heartbreak, which almost made it worse. You looked frustrated, like you were hearing something you fundamentally disagreed with.

“I didn’t ask for better,” you said. “I just asked for you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Why?”

Because I will ruin this. Because I don’t know how to keep something good without breaking it. Because you’re still whole in ways I stopped being a long time ago.

“I’m not what you think I am,” he said instead.

You shook your head slightly. “I work with you. I see you every day. I know exactly who you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Then tell me.”

He didn’t. Instead, he took a step back, creating distance that felt final in a way neither of you had said out loud yet.

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said.

“For who?” you asked.

“For you.”

Your expression softened then, but not in a way that meant you agreed. It looked more like disappointment, like you were realizing something you didn’t want to accept.

“That’s not your decision to make,” you said quietly.

“It is if I’m the problem.”

“You’re not,” you started, but he cut you off.

“I am.”

The certainty in his voice stopped you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, after a pause that felt heavier than anything else that had been said, you nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He hadn’t expected that. He thought you would argue more, push back harder, force him to confront the things he was avoiding.

But you didn’t.

“If that’s what you want,” you added, your voice steady even if your eyes weren’t.

He nodded, even though it wasn’t what he wanted at all.

“Take care of yourself, Jack,” you said, and then you walked away.

The Pitt didn’t change after that. Why would it do? It remained exactly what it had always been, loud and relentless and unforgiving. Jack kept working, kept moving from one patient to the next, kept doing everything he was supposed to do without hesitation. From the outside, nothing about him seemed different.

But you were no longer part of his routine, and the absence of you settled into everything in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

He noticed it in small moments at first, like when he reached for a second coffee out of habit before remembering you weren’t there to take it, or when he caught himself looking up during a shift because he expected to see you nearby. He noticed it in the break room, in the hallways, in the quiet seconds between tasks when his mind had nothing else to focus on.

You were still there, of course, just not with him. You smiled at other people, talked to other coworkers, moved through the hospital with the same presence you had always had. You hadn’t changed, and that had been the entire point.

So why did it feel like he had made a mistake?

Then everything went wrong at once.

A trauma case came in fast, louder than usual, voices overlapping as the team moved to receive the patient. Jack shifted immediately, stepping into place, his focus narrowing as it always did when things escalated. There was blood, there were shouted instructions, there was the controlled chaos he knew how to navigate without hesitation.

And then, in the middle of it, something else happened.

It wasn’t even part of the case.

A crash from the other side of the room, sharp and sudden enough to cut through everything.

Jack’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.

A piece of equipment had gone down hard, metal hitting tile with a sound that made everyone flinch, and in the movement, in the confusion of too many bodies in too small a space, someone had been caught in it.

You.

For a second, nothing made sense. The noise, the movement, the way people shifted around you—it all blurred together until his brain caught up with what he was seeing.

You were on the ground.

Not moving.

Something in his chest dropped so fast it felt physical, like the air had been pulled out of his lungs before he could react. He didn’t remember crossing the room, didn’t remember leaving his patient or handing anything off, only that one second you were across the chaos and the next he was there, kneeling beside you.

“Hey—hey, look at me.”

His voice sounded wrong, too sharp, too tight.

There was blood, not a lot but enough, a thin line near your temple where you must have hit something on the way down. Your eyes were closed, your body too still, and for a moment that stretched longer than it should have, there was nothing.

Then you shifted slightly, a small, disoriented movement, and his breath came back all at once.

“Hey,” he said again, softer this time, one hand hovering near your face before he forced himself to focus. “Can you hear me?”

Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first before landing on him. “Jack…?”

Relief hit him hard enough to make his hands shake, but he kept them steady as he checked you over, his movements automatic even while something inside him was unraveling.

“Yeah, I’m here. Don’t move, okay? Just stay still for me.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured, already trying to push yourself up.

“No, you’re not,” he said immediately, more forceful than he meant to be. “Just—stay.”

You blinked at him, clearly still dazed, but you listened, settling back against the floor as someone else moved in to help. Around you, the ER kept going, the original trauma case still unfolding, voices still calling out instructions, but Jack’s entire focus had narrowed to you in a way that felt dangerous.

Because for that moment, nothing else mattered.

Not the patient he had left behind. Not the noise, not the urgency, not the rhythm he had spent years training himself to follow without deviation.

Just you.

The realization hit him before he could push it away.

This was what he had been trying to avoid. This exact moment. The loss of control, the shift in priorities, the way his entire world tilted because you were hurt.

Except it wasn’t hypothetical anymore.

It was real.

And it was worse than anything he had imagined.

They got you onto a bed, started running checks, voices calmer now that it was clear you were conscious, responsive. Jack stayed close, closer than he should have, watching every small reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the room.

“You hit your head,” someone said. “We’re just going to make sure everything’s okay.”

“I said I’m fine,” you insisted, your voice steadier now, though your gaze kept drifting back to Jack.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t trust himself to. His chest still felt tight, his thoughts louder than they had been in weeks.

You could have been seriously hurt.

You could have—

He stopped the thought before it finished, but it didn’t matter. The fear had already settled in.

The idea of losing you wasn’t abstract anymore. It wasn’t something he could distance himself from with logic or excuses.

It was something that had just almost happened right in front of him.

And he had felt it.

Fully.

Completely.

There was no going back from that.

—

He found you later, after everything had calmed down, after your scans came back clear, after the incident had been reduced to something manageable, something explainable.

You were sitting on one of the empty beds, a small bandage near your temple, looking more annoyed than anything else.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said as he approached.

You looked up, surprised. “I am resting.”

“That’s not resting.”

“It is compared to what we usually do.”

Despite everything, he almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, he stopped a few feet away, his expression more serious than you had ever seen it.

“What?” you asked, your tone shifting slightly as you picked up on it.

“I thought—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair like he needed a second to get the words right. “When you went down, I thought—”

You watched him carefully, something softer settling in your expression.

“I’m okay,” you said gently.

“I know,” he replied. “But that’s not the point.”

Silence stretched between you, but this one wasn’t empty. It was full of everything he hadn’t said before.

“I was wrong,” he said finally.

You tilted your head slightly. “About?”

“Letting you go.”

Your gaze didn’t waver, but there was something guarded there now, something that hadn’t been before. “Jack—”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he continued, the words coming more easily now that he had started. “I told myself I did, but I didn’t. I did it because I was scared of this, of what it would feel like if something happened to you and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Your expression softened, but you didn’t interrupt.

“And then it almost did,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And it wasn’t easier, it wasn’t better, it was worse. So much worse.”

You let out a slow breath, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “You don’t get to decide what I’m worth risking, Jack.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know that now.”

“And you hurt me.”

“I know that too.”

Another pause, but this one felt like something being weighed instead of avoided.

“I’m still the same person,” you said. “This didn’t suddenly make me fragile.”

“I know,” he repeated. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?”

He held your gaze, not looking away this time, not trying to soften the truth into something easier to accept.

“Because I don’t want to do this without you.”

The honesty in that settled into the space between you, heavy but not unwelcome.

You studied him for a long moment, searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that he might pull away again.

You didn’t find it.

“You’re an idiot,” you said finally, but there was no heat behind it.

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t get to run next time something scares you.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I can promise I’ll stay.”

That seemed to matter.

You nodded slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Okay.”

That word again, but this time it felt different.

Stronger.

More deliberate.

Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” you repeated, a small smile forming despite everything. “But if you ever try to push me away again, I’m not making it this easy for you.”

“That’s fair.”

“And you’re buying me coffee for at least a month.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound unfamiliar after everything that had just settled between you. “Deal.”

You shifted slightly, wincing just a little before settling again, and he instinctively moved closer, his hand hovering near yours before he let it rest there, light but certain.

For the first time, he didn’t pull back.

Because the fear was still there. It hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t softened into something manageable or distant.

But now it wasn’t something he was running from.