I thought about our phone call yesterday, how distant I'dsounded when she'd mentioned Santoro. She'd needed my support, my attention, and I'd given her polite deflection instead. The guilt sat heavy in my chest, a constant reminder that I was failing the person who mattered most to me.
I need to be better for her, I thought, staring at my phone.I can't let one case, one failure, poison this. She deserves someone who shows up completely.
My phone buzzed in my hands, and I looked down expecting another playful text from her shift. Instead, the message made my stomach drop:
Izzy
Bad call. Really bad. Can I see you later?
The coffee mug hit the table harder than I'd intended. This wasn't casual conversation or flirting between calls. This was a distress signal. "Bad call" was code in our world — it meant trauma, the kind of call that stayed with you long after the sirens stopped.
My guilt amplified instantly. She'd been dealing with something terrible, and where had I been? Wrapped up in my own head, nursing my own wounds, being exactly the kind of partner she didn't need.
Not anymore, I told myself, already moving toward my phone.Whatever this is, whatever she needs, I'm going to be there. Really there.
My response was immediate:
Of course. Anything you need. My place or yours? When does your shift end?
Izzy
Yours. I get off at 7.
I looked at the clock. Four hours. Four hours to transform my apartment into whatever she needed it to be. A safe harbor, a quiet refuge; a place where she could fall apart if necessary.
I moved through my apartment with purpose, each action deliberate and caring. Fresh coffee went into the pot — not the bitter stuff I drank when I was alone, but the good beans I saved for special occasions. I pulled out the softest throw blanket I owned, the one that felt like a hug, and draped it over the couch. The tres leches from yesterday went to the front of the fridge where she'd see it immediately, a quiet offering of sweetness when everything else felt bitter.
I changed the lighting, switching off the harsh overhead fixtures in favor of the warm lamps that made everything feel calmer. I put on music — instrumental jazz, nothing with words that might jar against whatever she was carrying. Every decision was made with one question: What would help her feel safe?
By the time I finished, my apartment felt different. Not like a bachelor pad or even a romantic setting, but like a sanctuary. A place designed for healing.
I showered and changed into my softest clothes — worn jeans and a cotton t-shirt that had been through a hundred washes. Nothing that would scratch against her skin if she needed to be held. Nothing that would remind her of hospitals or uniforms or any of the professional armor we both wore.
Then I sat on my couch and waited.
The knock on my door at 7:23 a.m. was soft, tentative. I opened it to find Izzy standing in the hallway, still in her uniform, looking like she'd been hit by something she couldn't quite name. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, her posture carefully controlled in the way that meant she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
"Hey," she said quietly.
"Hey yourself," I replied, stepping aside to let her in. "Come here, beautiful."
She didn't hesitate. She walked straight into my arms, and I folded her against my chest, feeling some of the tension leaveher body as I held her. She smelled like smoke and antiseptic and something indefinably sad.
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," I said against her hair. "But I'm here. Whatever you need."
She pulled back to look at me, and I saw surprise in her eyes — pleasant surprise, like she'd been expecting something else.
"Thank you," she said. "I just... I need to sit down."
I guided her to the couch, and she sank into it gratefully, pulling the throw blanket around herself like armor. I settled beside her, close enough to touch but giving her space to breathe.
"Do you want coffee? Food? Anything you want."
"Coffee sounds good," she said. "And maybe... maybe you could just sit with me for a minute?"
I got up to pour the coffee, adding cream the way she liked it, and when I returned, she was staring at her hands, gathering herself for whatever she needed to say.
"There was an accident," she began, her voice carefully controlled. "Highway 45. A family."
