"Stop psychoanalyzing my apartment," she says from the kitchen, wearing shorts that should be illegal and one of those oversized medical conference t-shirts that says "I Stop Bleeding For A Living" in faded letters.
"I'm admiring," I correct, picking up a photo from her bookshelf. Young couple, clearly her parents, radiating that specific happiness that comes before tragedy rearranges your DNA. "How young were you?"
"Seventeen," she says, bringing me coffee in a mug that reads ‘I've Got 99 Problems But A Differential Diagnosis Ain't One.’ "Miguel was twenty-one. Dropped out of college to become my parent overnight."
"That why you became a nurse?"
"No, I became a nurse because I have a savior complex the size of Texas and the emotional regulation of a toddler on espresso." She pauses. "But yeah, probably also the parent thing."
I set down the photo, move toward her. "You know I don't need you to save me, right?"
"Good, because my success rate with anything that doesn't involve direct medical intervention is abysmal." She looks up at me, those eyes that hold stories like medical histories—complicated, layered, not always survivable. "I don't need you to save me either."
"Wouldn't dream of it. You're the most capably chaotic person I've ever met."
"That's either a compliment or a diagnosis."
"Both," I tell her, setting down my coffee. "Definitely both."
She bites her lip—that tell she has when she's about to say something that matters. "We should be using protection. I mean, going forward. If there is a forward."
"Your choice," I say immediately. "Always your choice."
"I trust my birth control," she says, then meets my eyes. "I trust you. Which is probably more dangerous than any medical decision I've made."
The weight of that statement hits harder than any punch I've ever taken. Trust, from someone who's seen exactly what I'm capable of, who knows the blood on my hands isn't metaphorical.
"You shouldn't," I tell her honestly.
"Probably not," she agrees. "But my decision-making paradigm is already fucked, so why start making sense now?"
Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door. Not a knock—a pounding. Drunk pounding, which has its own specific rhythm.
"Lena! I know you're in there!" Nathan's voice, slurred and desperate. "I know you're seeing someone!"
She closes her eyes, looking like she's calculating the statistical probability of the floor opening up and swallowing her. "Of fucking course."
"Want me to—"
"No," she says, moving toward the door. "Let me handle this."
She opens it, and Nathan practically falls inside, reeking of whiskey and poor choices. His eyes find me immediately, and I watch him try to process what he's seeing—the enemy in her apartment, clearly comfortable, clearly belonging in a way he never did.
"Him?" Nathan's voice cracks. "You're fucking HIM?"
"Nathan, go home," Lena says, her voice carrying that medical authority that makes people obey. Usually.
"He's a killer! He's—"
"He's here," I interrupt, moving to stand behind Lena, not touching but present. "She said leave."
Nathan looks between us, and I see the moment he realizes this isn't new, isn't casual, isn't something he can drunk-talk his way out of. His face crumbles.
"You were supposed to be with me," he tells her, wounded and accusing.
"No," Lena says gently but firmly. "I was supposed to be whoever I choose to be. And I choose this."
Nathan looks at me with pure hatred, then back at her with something worse—disappointment. Then he stumbles out, slamming the door behind him.
