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𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜

She wiped the last smear of lipstick from the corner of her mouth and set the cap back on the marker with a small, satisfied click. The mirror in the doctors' lounge still held her message cut through it in bold, curved letters. She never signed them, didn't need to. He'd know. He always knew, or at least she thought he did. That was the part that twisted in her gut every time she walked past him in the hallway, scrubs brushing, eyes flicking too fast to hold contact. She didn't speak to him unless she had to, and when she did, her voice always came out softer than she meant it to.

It had been almost three months since the supply closet incident. It had been months, but her body hadn't forgotten the shape of his grip or the way he had looked at her just before he lost control. They hadn't meant for it to happen. It wasn't about love, not even lust at first. It was grief - two bodies reaching for heat while trying to crawl out from under the weight of unspoken things. Just one moment to forget everything else. Only she hadn't, not even for a second. Every shift, every corridor, every time his voice echoed from behind, she felt it stir. And now, it was worse, because there was something else growing beneath her skin. Something he'd left behind that she hadn't had the nerve to speak out loud.

She had memorized his schedule. Knew which days he floated between trauma and OR, which days he skipped lunch, which mornings he dragged himself into the staff kitchen. She didn't care that he barely looked at her. Not since that day, not since his hands were on her hips and his voice had dropped into her neck. She pressed a palm to her belly sometimes at night and imagined what he'd say if he knew. If he'd panic. If he'd leave. Or if he'd just stare at her with that cold, focused look of his and ask when it happened, as if it hadn't been the only moment that had ever made her feel real.