"Made you laugh though."
"Only because I have dangerously low standards." She threw a wadded napkin at me, which I caught easily. "You're lucky you're cute."
"I prefer dashingly handsome, but I'll take cute."
She rolled her eyes, still smiling, and went back to her reading.
I grinned and sipped my coffee, but something flashed at the edge of my mind—a memory I hadn't invited, a comparison I shouldn't be making.
My wife. Ex. Calla…
She would not have laughed. She would have stared at me with those light brown eyes, her expression unchanged, and told me my sense of humor was fundamentally broken. She would've said,‘That's not a joke. That's a cry for help.’
But later, when she thought I wasn't watching, I would have caught a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. That secret smile she saved for moments when her guard slipped and forgot to be stoic.
I used to live for those moments—the hairline cracks in her armor, the glimpses of warmth she buried beneath all that control. Winning a laugh from Calla felt like an achievement, something earned rather than given freely.
Maya laughed openly. There was no mystery to it. No chase or victory in making her smile because she smiled at everything.
I didn't know which I preferred more.
I shoved the thought back down. That was a dangerous road, and I shouldn't be treading it. Calla was five years in my past. Maya was here, present, warm, real and uncomplicated.
I was happy with Maya.
We’re happy together.
She stood and wrapped her arms around me from behind as I stared out the window. The city stretched below us, the gloomy morning made it more difficult to focus.
"You've been distracted lately," she murmured against my shoulder blade. "Is everything okay?"
I hummed. "Just work stuff. You know how it is."
"I do." She kissed the spot between my shoulders, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache for reasons I didn't want to think. "But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything."
"I know."
And I did. Maya was patient, understanding. She never pushed me into conversations I wasn't ready to have or demanded explanations I couldn't give. Living together for the past six months has been easy. Shockingly easy, considering how complicated my marriage had been. We had routines. We respected each other's space.
"Love you," she said, pulling away to gather her things.
"Love you too."
I meant it. I did.
I drove too early and used the extra time to grab a decent breakfast from the cafeteria, a luxury I rarely allowed myself. Scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit. I sat by the window and watched the morning shift trickle in, nurses and doctors and technicians badging in for another day of saving lives.
I loved my job, the energy of it, and the sense that anything could happen at any moment and we would handle it because that's what we did in medical emergencies. They demanded focus, action, solutions.
There was comfort in that. Clarity.
By seven, I was already reviewing overnight admits and checking in with the residents. A second-year named Denver had handled a difficult intubation solo, and I made sure to tell him he'd done good work. A third-year named Kendra was struggling with a diagnosis, so I walked her through the differential, asking questions until she arrived at the answer herself.
This was the part of the job I loved most. Teaching and watching young doctors grow into confident surgeons, knowing that the skills I passed on would save lives long after I was gone.
"Dr. Reed!" A first-year resident jogged up to me, slightly out of breath. "Got a consult for you. MVA victim, possible internal bleeding. Bay four."
"On my way."
