"You did good tonight," I told her. "Get some sleep."
"You too. Thanks for everything."
I nodded and headed for the parking garage, my body already anticipating the ritual of sleep preparation. But as I walked, my mind kept drifting back to the text exchange with Izzy. Three messages. That was it. But something about the way she'd said "Thank you. Really." had stuck with me.
The drive home was a study in frustration. Every restaurant I passed was advertising breakfast — pancakes, eggs Benedict, fresh-baked muffins. All I wanted was a double cheeseburger with fries, the kind of comfort food that made sense after a night of dealing with humanity at its most vulnerable. But noooooooo, society had decided that 7:30 a.m. was pancake time, not burger time.
I settled for a gas station diet lemonade and a sad-looking breakfast sandwich, cursing the tyranny of normal people's schedules.
My apartment building was quiet when I pulled into the parking lot. Mrs. Peters from 2B was already in her garden, probably wondering why the nice young man from 3A looked like he'd been through a blender. I gave her a tired wave and headed upstairs.
My one-bedroom apartment was a study in carefully cultivated comfort. Plants lined the windowsills — pothos and snake plants that could survive my erratic schedule. Cookbooks were stacked on every available surface, dog-eared and splattered with evidence of my experiments. The kitchen counters were clean but lived-in, with a sourdough starter I'd been babying for two years sitting in its place of honor next to the coffee maker.
It was the polar opposite of what I imagined a first responder's place might look like. No minimalist efficiency, no tactical gear laid out with military precision. Just warmth and life and the accumulated comfort of someone who'd learned to find joy in small, controllable things.
I went through my post-shift routine with practiced efficiency. Shower to wash off the hospital smell and the weight of the night. Change into soft clothes that had never seen the inside of an ER. Brush my teeth while my brain finally started to wind down from the hypervigilance that twelve hours of emergency nursing required.
But as I pulled the blackout curtains closed and climbedinto bed, I found myself reaching for my phone. I'd already checked it twice on the drive home, which was stupid. Izzy was probably sleeping, or dealing with whatever came next with Cap's treatment, or just getting on with her life.
I set the phone on my nightstand and closed my eyes, willing my body to embrace the sleep it desperately needed. I had another twelve-hour shift starting at 7 p.m. Eight hours of sleep was sacred. Non-negotiable.
I lasted about ten minutes before I was reaching for the phone again.
No new messages. Of course not. What had I been expecting?
This was ridiculous. I helped families navigate medical crises all the time. It was part of the job. The fact that this particular family member happened to be a competent, beautiful firefighter with tired eyes and calloused hands was irrelevant.
Except it wasn't irrelevant, was it? Because I couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd looked when Cap's pain finally eased. The careful control she'd maintained even when she was clearly terrified. The surprise in her eyes when I'd given her my number, like kindness was something unexpected.
I put the phone back on the nightstand and rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. Sleep. I needed sleep.
But five minutes later, I was staring at the ceiling, thinking about whether she'd gotten any rest, whether the doctors had given her more information, whether she was sitting in that waiting room feeling as lost as she'd looked at 4 a.m.
This was insane. I barely knew her. Three text messages and one emergency room encounter did not constitute a relationship. I was probably just projecting, reading meaning into professional courtesy.
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly knocked over the water glass onmy nightstand, my heart doing something completely unprofessional at the sight of her name on the screen.
Izzy
How's your sleep schedule? Do you work tonight?
I stared at the message for a long moment, trying to decode it. Was she checking on my wellbeing? Did she need something? Was there a problem with Cap?
Working tonight, trying to sleep now. Everything okay?
The response came quickly:
Izzy
Cap's doing better this morning. Doctor says the stent placement went well. I just wanted to thank you again for last night. And to say if you need anything, coffee, food, whatever, let me know. I owe you.
I read the message twice, a slow warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the morning sunlight filtering through my blackout curtains.
You don't owe me anything. Glad Cap's doing better. Get some rest yourself, you've earned it.
Izzy
