The hospital never slept.
Talia learned that fast.
The sterile hallways, the beeping monitors, the shuffle of overworked feet and exhausted interns—it became her new normal. Her first official rotation in Emergency Medicine was a storm. Patients poured in like clockwork. Some barely breathing. Some too loud. Some too silent.
On her second night shift, she didn't even realize she had a smear of dried blood on her neck until Ezra picked her up at 7 a.m., his eyes scanning her like she might shatter.
"Tough night?" he asked as she slumped into the passenger seat.
Talia didn't answer. Just leaned her head against the cold window and whispered, "Drive."
Ezra reached over, linked their pinkies together on the center console. No questions. No commentary. Just silent solidarity.
When they got home, she went straight to the shower. Stood under the scalding water until her skin turned red. When she came out, Ezra had made oatmeal and left a cup of coffee exactly the way she liked it—too sweet, too creamy, comfort in a mug.
But she barely touched it.
Three days later, Ezra's rotation in Pediatrics began. His first patient was a six-year-old girl named Lucy with leukemia and a stuffed fox that never left her side.
He didn't cry in the room. But when he got home that night and found Talia asleep on the couch, textbooks open on her chest, he sat at her feet and just stared for a long time.
She woke up groggily. "Hey. You okay?"
Ezra hesitated. Then nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just... a long day."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No. I just want to be here."
So she scooted over, wrapped her arms around him, and let him rest his head on her shoulder while the ceiling fan hummed quietly above them.
They fell into a pattern of missing each other.
One always coming home as the other left. Notes on mirrors. Post-its on fridge doors. A voicemail here, a sleepy forehead kiss there.
They weren't drifting, not yet.
But they were tired.
So, so tired.
It was a Thursday night when it finally cracked.
Talia was supposed to be home by midnight. Ezra had made her pasta, lit candles, even poured wine—an attempt to bring a little softness back into their lives.
But midnight came.
Then one.
Then two.
At 2:18 a.m., she stumbled through the door, hair in a messy ponytail, scrubs stained with coffee.
Ezra stood from the couch, tension in his shoulders.
"I waited," he said softly.
She dropped her bag, rubbing her temples. "Ezra, I'm sorry. There was a trauma code and—"
"I know. I get it. I just... I miss you."
Her eyes fluttered closed. "We're doing our best."
"Are we?" he asked. "Because lately it feels like we're surviving, not living. I see you less than I see the janitor in my building."
"That's what med school is," she said, sharper than she meant.
"That's not what we are."
She sighed, walked toward him, and pressed her forehead to his chest. "I'm trying."
"I know," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "Me too."
Then, in the quiet, as the city outside buzzed with neon signs and late trains, Ezra whispered something he hadn't planned to say yet.
"I want to marry you someday."
Talia froze.
Pulled back.
"Ezra…"
"Not now," he said quickly. "I know it's not the time. I know we're a mess and our apartment smells like old takeout and I haven't done laundry in two weeks—but I need you to know that even on our worst days, I still want a forever with you."
She blinked, her throat tight.
"You're serious?"
"I've never been more."
Talia swallowed, her heart cracking open in places she didn't know were still closed. "You didn't even ask."
Ezra smiled, eyes tired but certain. "Didn't need to."
And even though her body was exhausted, her heart wasn't. Not when it came to him.
So she leaned up and kissed him, slow and deep, like a promise sealed in the dark.
Not an answer.
Not yet.
But something close.
Something real.