“I promise, Cap,” I said, my voice breaking.
He just smiled, a sad, knowing smile, his eyes already starting to drift shut from the effort. “Good girl.”
He was asleep in seconds, his breathing evening out into the shallow rhythm of the monitors.
I sat there for a long time, holding his hand, his words echoing in my head. He hadn't given me a roadmap or a solution. Just an observation and a simple permission slip — permission to be happy. The last link to my father, the man who had been my compass, my anchor, my family, was slipping away. And for the first time in my life, I felt the terrifying, untethered certainty of being completely and utterly alone.
I tried to say goodbye to Jimmy, but he was caught with an emergent patient, a patient in an unstable cardiac rhythm. I saw his eyes flick up and he nodded briefly as I waved, though I saw the look that crossed his face momentarily that made it clear he'd have come running out to me if he could.
The drive back to my apartment was a blur of city lights and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical tiredness. By the time I pulled into my parkingspace, my hands were shaking slightly, the adrenaline of the crisis finally wearing off.
My phone buzzed as I climbed the stairs to my apartment.
Jimmy
How are you holding up?
I stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back:
Can I see you tonight? After your shift?
Jimmy
Of course. My place or yours?
Yours. I need... I need to not be alone right now.
Jimmy
Go over whenever you want. Let yourself in. There's tres leches in the fridge. Help yourself, beautiful.
I smiled, despite myself. I let myself into my apartment, changed out of my uniform, took a shower, and tried to find something to do with my hands until Jimmy's shift ended. But everything felt hollow, temporary, like I was just marking time until the next crisis, the next loss, the next reminder that nothing good lasted forever.
At 7 a.m., I walked through Jimmy's apartment door, my overnight bag in hand and my carefully constructed walls finally starting to crumble.
When he opened the door, still in his scrubs but with tired, compassionate eyes, I didn't say anything. I just stepped into his arms and let him hold me while I finally allowed myself to fall apart.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't try to fix anything. He just held me against his chest while I shook, one hand stroking my hair, the other wrapped securely around my waist. I couldsmell the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to his scrubs, mixed with something that was purely him — clean and warm and safe.
"I've got you," he whispered against the top of my head. "I've got you."
We stood there in his doorway for what felt like hours, my face pressed against his shoulder, his arms creating a barrier between me and the rest of the world. When the trembling finally stopped, when I could breathe without feeling like my chest was going to cave in, I pulled back to look at him.
His green eyes were soft with concern, searching my face. "Cap?"
"He's..." I swallowed hard. "He's fighting. But he's getting weaker. The cancer's spreading." The words came out in fragments, pieces of a reality I wasn't ready to face. "He told me about my father. About being proud of me. About giving myself permission to be happy."
Jimmy's hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing away tears I didn't realize I was still crying. "And what do you want, Izzy? What would make you happy?"
The question hung between us, simple and profound. What did I want? I'd spent so many years focused on what I had to do, what was expected of me, what would prove I belonged. But what did I actually want?
"This," I said quietly, my hand coming up to cover his. "You. Right now, I just want to forget about everything else and be here with you."
Something shifted in his expression — not just desire, though I could see that too, but understanding. He leaned down and kissed me, soft and careful, like I was something precious that might break.
"Then that's what we'll do," he said against my lips.
He led me through his apartment, past the kitchen where we'd laughed and cooked together, past the living room wherewe'd talked about everything and nothing. In his bedroom, he turned to face me, his hands settling gently on my waist.
