"Can we get pizza on the way?" she asked finally. "I haven't eaten since lunch."
"Yeah." I managed a smile. "We can get pizza."
We walked out of the hospital together, her hand in mine, our fingers intertwined. The parking lot was nearly empty, the night quiet except for the distant wail of an approaching ambulance. Calla flinched at the sound, instinct pulling her attention toward the noise before she forced herself to look away.
"Not tonight," I said. "You're off the clock."
"I know."
But I saw the way her eyes lingered on the ambulance bay and how her shoulders tensed with the urge to turn around. The hospital called to her in a way I never had, and I'd accepted that a long time ago.
I just hadn't realized how much it would hurt.
We found a pizza place open late, a tiny shop with peeling vinyl booths and a cook who looked like he hadn't slept in days. Calla ordered a margherita. I got pepperoni. We sat across from each other in a booth that smelled like oregano and old grease, eating in silence while the clock on the wall ticked past one in the morning.
"Tell me about your day," she said eventually.
I shrugged. "Not much to tell. Clinic in the morning. Two surgeries in the afternoon. Nothing exciting."
"And then you went to Lucia's."
"And then I went to Lucia's."
She set down her pizza, her appetite apparently gone. "I really am sorry, Cassian."
I paused, staring at her half-eaten slice. "I know you are."
"I keep doing this. Forgetting and things. You deserve better."
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were cold despite the warmth of the restaurant.
"I deserve you," I said. "That's what I signed up for. The good and bad. The easy and hard."
Her jaw worked, like she was fighting against words that wanted to escape. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not simple. But it's still true."
She didn't respond. Just looked at our hands intertwined on the table, her thumb tracing circles on my palm.
"I love you," she said quietly. The words sounded almost painful coming from her, like they cost her something to speak aloud. "You know that, right?"
I squeezed her hand. "I know."
"I don't say it enough."
"You don't."
She flinched, lowering her gaze. It was something she always did when she felt guilty.
"But I know anyway," I continued. "You show me in other ways. The way you save me the last cup of coffee even when you need it more. Or how you check on my patients when I'm running late. I can feel it whenever you let me hold you when you've had a bad day, even though asking for comfort makes you feel like you're failing somehow."
Her eyes glistened with tears.
"I see you, Calla. Even when you're trying to hide."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she lifted my hand and pressed her lips to my knuckles, a gesture so tender it made my heart ache.
"Take me home," she murmured against my skin.
