“Where you pretend you don’t have opinions.”
I set my fork down. “It’s good.”
“Just good?”
I hold her gaze. “It’s very good.”
Something shifts in her expression, subtle, but there. It shouldn’t matter this much, but it does.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
She tells me about a call she had earlier in the week, careful to keep it surface level, just enough detail to share without crossing into the territory of trying to avoid conversation.
I listen and respond accordingly watching the way her voice changes when she talks about work. She sounds more grounded and more certain. It steadies something in her, gives her back control.
“You didn’t hesitate,” I say when she finishes.
Her eyes flick to mine. “What?”
“While responding to that call,” I clarify. “You made decisions quickly.”
She shrugs, looking back down at her plate. “That’s the job.”
“It’s more than that.”
She doesn’t respond right away.
“You handled it,” I continue. “That matters.”
Her grip on her fork tightens slightly. “I don’t always feel like I am,” she admits.
I lean back in my chair studying her. “You are,” I say simply.
Her gaze lifts again, searching mine like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. I don’t look away. Because I do mean it, every bit of it.
Later, she drifts toward the living room, curling up on the far end of the couch with a blanket pulled loosely around her.
Winter is around the corner, and nights are now brisk enough that she can feel it, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. But I can tell; it’s in the way she behaves when she gets back from. She climbs out of the car and heads straight to her room to change into something layered. I’m enjoying watching her transformation into a blanket shielded, cozy-searching version of herself.
I stay where I am for a few minutes longer, clearing the table and giving her space. Another choice, another line I don’t cross.
When I finally join her, I take the opposite end of the couch. Not close enough to touch but close enough to feel her presence.
The TV is on, but neither of us is watching it. The newscaster drones on about sports like either of us cares.
Her breathing slows gradually, tension easing out of her frame in small increments. Safe enough, for now.
My gaze drifts to her hands, resting lightly against the fabric of the blanket. The same hands that stabilize patients, that fight to keep people alive. The same hands I’ve held, threaded my fingers through, had wrapped around my co- I cut the thought off before it can finish forming.
Guilt is a constant now, low and persistent, like a hum I can’t shut off. But tonight, it’s louder, because she’s shifted emotionally the last few days. She’s letting me back in through tiny increments. But each step results in her pulling back afterwards, like she’s still worried about whether she should let me close again.
My jaw hardens, eyes shifting to the darkened window across the room. I didn’t hesitate to take that sample and run her DNA; that’s the worst part. I made the call quickly and efficiently, like I do with everything else. I collected the sample, had it run, andanalyzed the results. Like it was something simple, cold, clinical, and necessary. That’s what I told myself.
But sitting here now, watching her, seeing the way she’s starting to let her guard slip, inch by inch… it doesn’t feel necessary. It feels even more like a violation. Like I took something she didn’t even realize she needed to protect.
My hands curl slightly against my knees. She trusted me enough to stay, to eat with me, to not lock her door. And I-
“Stop thinking so loudly.”
