The moment you shut your car door, the silence crashes into you like a wave. For twelve hours, you were on your feet—answering codes, delivering tough news, keeping a calm face while your insides twisted. The hospital fluorescent lights still echo in your brain, the sharp beeping of monitors now just white noise in your ears.
You're too tired to cry, but too wired to breathe deeply. There's this invisible weight on your chest—grief, maybe. Or exhaustion that's burrowed so deep you can't even find the edges of it.
As you push open your apartment door, you barely register the soft light coming from the living room. At first, you think you left a lamp on. But then he turns, that familiar silhouette — Nicholas.
He's sitting on the couch, barefoot, wearing a soft gray hoodie and sweatpants, holding a mug in his hands. He stands up slowly, as if he's afraid any sudden movement will break you.
"Hey," he says gently, like he's not sure how much you can take tonight. He's reading you already, like he always does. Like his heart syncs with yours before you even speak.
You close the door behind you and drop your keys into the dish like they weigh ten pounds. You don't answer right away. You don't have to.
He walks over—quiet steps across the hardwood—and wraps his arms around you. No hesitation. No demands. Just the warm, steady pressure of him holding you, like he's shielding you from the world.
"You're shaking," he murmurs into your hair.
"I know," you whisper back, voice thin. "I don't even know why."
"You don't have to know," he says. "You just have to be here."
His arms are so strong, and it's that exact strength that lets you lean into him. Your forehead presses against his chest, and the scent of his cologne—something clean, with a hint of cedar—grounds you. You stay like that for a minute. Or five. Or ten. Time doesn't really exist when you're in his arms.
Finally, you pull back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes are glassy, and his soften when he sees it.
"Rough day?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
You nod. "Lost a patient. Young. It wasn't supposed to happen. Then I had to move on like it was... just another thing."
He cups your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing under your eyes. "You don't have to move on here. Not with me."
That's what cracks you open. Not the loss. Not the stress. Not the fatigue. But that—the way he gives you permission to unravel.
Tears come, slow but steady, and he catches them with quiet kisses on your forehead, your temple, your cheek. He doesn't say "Don't cry." He doesn't say "Be strong." He just holds you tighter.
You feel yourself melt into him, finally letting your body sag from its straight-backed posture. He guides you to the couch without a word, pulling a soft blanket over your lap, and then he nestles beside you, arms still around your shoulders.
"I made chamomile tea," he says after a while. "Didn't know when you'd be home, but I had a feeling you'd need it."
You glance at the steaming mug on the coffee table. "You always know."
He smiles softly, resting his forehead against yours. "That's because I pay attention. And because I love you."
You look up at him—his tired but patient eyes, the little lines on his forehead that only show up when he's worried about you.
"You didn't have to wait up."
"I wanted to. You take care of everyone else all day. Someone needs to take care of you."
The tears start again, but they're different now—softer. Like release instead of weight.
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're allowed to fall apart. You're allowed to not be okay. I don't need the doctor version of you right now. I just want you. That's enough."
You bury your face in his neck, and he holds you like you're something breakable—but not broken. He's warm, and steady, and real. You don't need to speak. You don't need to move. You just breathe.
And for the first time all day, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you can exhale.
