Days turned into a week.
And somehow, distance became impossible.
Because healing required time.
And time meant proximity.
"Why are you avoiding it?" he asked one afternoon.
She paused mid-note.
"Avoiding what?"
"My name."
That made her look at him.
Really look this time.
The air shifted.
"I'm your doctor," she said carefully. "It's not appropriate—"
"That's not it," he cut in gently. "You used to say it like it meant something."
Her breath caught.
There it was again—that crack in her armor.
"Things change," she said.
"Do they?" he asked.
Because to him—
They hadn't.
Not really.
The rain came on a quiet evening.
Soft at first, then steady against the windows.
He couldn't sleep.
Pain lingered in his ribs, dull but constant. His arm itched beneath the cast.
But that wasn't what kept him awake.
The door creaked open.
He didn't need to look.
He already knew.
"You're not on shift," he said.
She stepped inside anyway.
"I know."
No clipboard. No gloves. No distance.
Just her.
For the first time since the accident.
"Why are you here?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she moved closer, stopping beside his bed—close enough that the silence between them felt alive.
"I heard you were asking for discharge papers," she said.
"I was."
"You're not ready."
"I don't want to stay here."
With you.
The unspoken words hung heavy.
Her jaw tightened.
"The reporters are camping outside, I don't want to bother you anymore and they might recognize you. I don't want you to suffer anymore, you don't deserve that after everything that you went through." He said softly while looking at her eyes intently.
"Don't look at me like that," she said smiling.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm the most fragile girl you know. Trust me, I can handle it this time. Stay for a couple of days more."
For a moment, she looked like she might back out.
Like she had years ago.
But this time—
She stayed.
The room felt different after that night.
Not lighter.
Just... more honest.