she had been told, more than once, that hospitals were no place for daydreaming. odette disagreed. hospitals were made of impossible things. breath returning where it should not. hands steadying over open hearts. grief standing beside miracles as if the two had agreed to share a hallway. odette had learned very early that there was not much difference between a stage and an operating room. both required discipline. both punished vanity. both demanded that pain become beautiful only after the work was done. which was why peter parker, with one hand pressed to his ribs and a bruise darkening along his jaw, looked rather like a very badly rehearsed disaster. she found him near the stairwell after midnight, trying to appear casual in a way that was so spectacularly unsuccessful it almost became charming. almost. odette stopped in front of him, still in her pale blue scrub cap, ballet flats tucked beneath one arm, her dark hair pinned in a bun that had survived surgery better than peter had survived whatever story he was about to invent. ❝ let me guess, ❞ she said, eyes narrowing with gentle suspicion. ❝ you tripped. ❞ her gaze moved from the bruise to his ribs, then back to his face. ❝ into a wall. repeatedly. with great determination. ❞ she stepped closer, close enough to lower her voice, close enough that her concern could hide itself behind manners if it needed to. ❝ peter, i am very fond of you, but you are a terrible liar. ❞ @withgreat
