Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charlotte Caldwell's phone buzzed at 7:42 AM while she was reviewing a malpractice insurance renewal. The text was from Robby. Of course it was.

*Lucy forgot her science project. Can you drop it off at school?*

She closed her eyes and counted to three. Their daughter had reminded him about the volcano model twice yesterday during pickup. Charlotte had watched from her car as Lucy held up the poster board, pointing at something, and Robby had nodded while clearly not listening. He'd been somewhere else entirely.

Because today was the day. Four years since Dr. Montgomery Adamson died.

Charlotte typed back: *Already did. Dropped it off at 7:15.*

The reply came immediately: *You're a lifesaver.*

*I'm a functioning parent*, she wanted to write. Instead, she sent nothing and turned back to her computer. The insurance carrier was threatening to increase premiums by eighteen percent based on last quarter's incident reports. She'd need to schedule a meeting with Risk Management and—

Her office phone rang. The caller ID showed an internal extension: Emergency Department.

Charlotte picked up. "Caldwell."

"Ms. Caldwell, this is Dana Evans, charge nurse in the ER. We've got a situation developing that might need legal eyes."

"What kind of situation?"

"End-of-life conflict. Adult children want to override a POLST, threatening to sue if we don't intubate their father. Dr. Robinavitch asked me to call you."

Of course he did. Because it was easier to call his ex-wife than deal with the legal implications himself.

"I'll be down in five minutes," Charlotte said.

The elevator descended from the fourth floor where the administrative offices lived in their quiet, carpeted peace. The doors opened on the ground floor and the noise hit her like a physical thing. Monitors beeping. Someone shouting for gauze. A child crying. The antiseptic smell mixed with something else—blood, maybe, or just human suffering concentrated into too small a space.

The waiting room was packed. Every chair filled, people standing against the walls. An elderly man was slumped in the corner, his head lolling. A young woman clutched a sleeping toddler. Two security guards flanked someone Charlotte couldn't see, their postures tense.

She pushed through the double doors into the ER proper.

Bay Six was a hurricane of activity. A nurse—young, maybe twenty—was holding a patient's hand while another adjusted an IV. In Bay Four, someone was screaming about fascists. Bay Eight had curtains drawn but she could hear low, urgent voices inside.

Dana spotted her first. The charge nurse was maybe late fifties, gray hair escaping from a bun, scrubs that had seen better days. She looked like she'd been awake for a thousand years.

"Ms. Caldwell. Thanks for coming down." Dana gestured toward Bay Twelve. "Joseph Spencer, seventy-nine, Alzheimer's. Pneumonia with right middle lobe infiltrate. He's got a POLST stating no intubation, no chest compressions. But the adult children have medical POA and they're threatening legal action if we don't intubate."

Charlotte glanced at the bay. Through the gap in the curtains, she could see an elderly man in the bed, oxygen mask on, eyes closed. Two people stood beside him—a woman in her fifties, expensive-looking coat, and a man about the same age in a suit that screamed lawyer or executive.

"Where's Dr. Robinavitch?"

"Trauma One. Train platform rescue. Two critical patients."

Of course. Because when it rained, it poured.

Charlotte approached Bay Twelve. The woman turned, her face tight with stress and something else—anger, maybe, or fear wearing anger's clothes.

"Are you the doctor?" the woman asked.

"I'm Charlotte Caldwell, hospital counsel. I understand there's a question about your father's treatment plan."

"There's no question," the man said. His voice was sharp, used to boardrooms and getting his way. "We want everything done. Intubation, whatever it takes."

Charlotte glanced at the patient. His breathing was labored even with the oxygen. His hands were gnarled with arthritis, liver spots covering the thin skin.

"I understand your father has a POLST indicating he doesn't want intubation or chest compressions."

"He signed that two years ago," the woman—Helen, according to the chart on Charlotte's tablet—said. "He wasn't himself. The Alzheimer's had already started."

"Was he declared incompetent at the time?"

Silence. Helen's jaw tightened.

"He was competent enough to sign," the brother—Jereme—said carefully. Too carefully. "But we're his children. We have medical power of attorney. We know what he'd really want."

Charlotte had seen this script before. Adult children who couldn't let go. Who wanted medicine to be magic, to give them back the parent they'd already lost.

"Mr. Spencer, Ms. Spencer," she said, keeping her voice level. "I need to be very clear about the legal situation. A POLST signed by a competent patient is a legally binding document. If your father was competent when he signed it—"

"How do we know he was?" Helen cut in. "How do we know he understood what he was signing?"

"Was he under a doctor's care? Did a physician sign off on it?"

More silence.

Charlotte pulled up the POLST on her tablet. Dr. Marcus Wellborn's signature at the bottom. She knew Wellborn—thorough, careful, not the type to let a patient sign something they didn't understand.

"Your father's physician of record signed this. The legal presumption is that he was competent unless proven otherwise. And since you didn't have him declared incompetent at the time—"

"This is bullshit," Jereme said. "We'll sue. We'll sue the hospital, we'll sue the doctor, we'll sue you personally if you let our father die without trying everything."

Charlotte had been threatened with personal lawsuits before. Usually by people who watched too much legal TV and didn't understand how liability worked.

"You're welcome to consult with your own attorney," she said. "But I need to inform you that forcing medical intervention contrary to a patient's stated wishes opens you up to considerably more liability than respecting those wishes."

"He's dying," Helen said, and her voice cracked. "He's dying and you're talking about liability."

And there it was. The real thing underneath the threats and the anger.

Charlotte's brother Thomas had died when she was seven. Leukemia. The best doctors her parents' money could buy, the best hospital, the best everything. None of it had mattered. But they'd tried. They'd tried everything, and at the end, Thomas had looked at their mother and said, "I'm tired."

He'd been five years old.

"Ms. Spencer," Charlotte said quietly. "I understand this is impossibly difficult. But your father made a choice about how he wanted to die. He made that choice while he was still himself. Doesn't he deserve to have that choice respected?"

Helen's eyes filled with tears. Jereme put his hand on his sister's shoulder.

"What if we're wrong?" Helen whispered. "What if he'd want us to try?"

"Then he wouldn't have signed the POLST."

A commotion erupted near the entrance. Charlotte turned. A teenager—tall, gangly, maybe eighteen—was running toward the doors. A woman in scrubs was chasing him, shouting something Charlotte couldn't make out. The kid crashed through the waiting room, knocking over a chair. Security moved but not fast enough.

He was gone.

Charlotte saw Robby then, emerging from Trauma One, his white coat open, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. He looked like hell. His hair was standing up in the back where he'd been running his hands through it. There was a coffee stain on his coat. But it was his eyes that stopped her—exhausted, yes, but something else underneath. Something haunted.

Because today was the day.

He spotted her and his expression shifted. Something shuttered.

"Counselor," he said as he approached. "Thanks for coming down."

Not Charlotte. Not Char. Counselor.

She wanted to say something about the text, about Lucy, about the fact that he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Instead, she just nodded toward Bay Twelve.

"The Spencer family. I've explained the legal situation with the POLST. They're not happy."

"Yeah, well." Robby rubbed his eyes. "No one's happy today."

"Michael." She said it quietly. Deliberately. "You okay?"

His jaw tightened. "I'm in the middle of a shift, Charlotte. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Then it's a good thing you're not my doctor." He turned toward Bay Twelve, then paused. "The kid who just ran out—David Saunders. Mother brought him in, thinks he's a danger to himself or others. He took off before psych could evaluate him. We need to know our liability exposure."

"Did he threaten anyone directly?"

"Not here. But apparently he's got a list. Of girls who should be 'eliminated.'"

Charlotte felt something cold settle in her stomach. "Jesus."

"Yeah." Robby looked toward the doors where David had disappeared. "So we've got a potentially dangerous teenager loose in Pittsburgh and I have no idea if we're liable for not restraining him, or if restraining him would've opened us up to false imprisonment charges, or—"

"Michael." She touched his arm. Just briefly. "Take a breath."

He looked at her hand, then at her face. For a second, just a second, the wall came down and she saw it—the weight of every decision, every patient, every impossible choice. And underneath that, the ghost of Dr. Adamson, four years dead, still haunting him.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his face went hard again.

"Collins needs me in Trauma One. We'll talk later."

He was gone before she could respond.

Dana appeared at Charlotte's elbow. "Rough day for him."

Charlotte watched him disappear through the doors to Trauma One. "Rough day for everyone, looks like."

"It's the anniversary. Adamson. Four years today."

"I know."

Dana gave her a look that said *of course you do*. Because Dana had been there when Charlotte and Robby were together. Dana had been there for the wedding, small and quick and perfect. Dana had been there for the fights, the divorce, the awkward co-parenting handoffs.

"You heard about David Saunders?" Charlotte asked.

"Kid with the list? Yeah. His mother's in Bay Three. Theresa. She made herself throw up all night to get him to bring her here, because she found his writing and got scared."

Charlotte pulled out her tablet. "I need to notify Pittsburgh PD. And I need to document everything—when he arrived, what was said, when he left. If something happens—"

"If something happens, everyone's going to ask why we didn't stop him," Dana finished.

"Exactly."

Charlotte spent the next twenty minutes documenting the David Saunders situation and making calls. Pittsburgh PD. Risk Management. The hospital's insurance carrier. Everyone needed to know. Everyone needed to have it on record that the ER had tried to help, that they'd called for a psych evaluation, that the patient had fled before assessment could be completed.

She was on hold with the insurance carrier when shouting erupted from Bay Twelve. Charlotte ended the call and rushed over.

Jereme Spencer was in Dr. Robby's face, literally—standing chest to chest, finger jabbing at Robby's sternum.

"—lawyers will bury you, you understand? You'll lose your license, your career, everything—"

"Mr. Spencer," Charlotte said sharply. She moved between them, not quite pushing but definitely creating space. "Step back. Now."

Jereme turned his anger toward her. "You. You're the one who told us we can't save our father."

"I told you what the law says. And right now, you're assaulting a physician. Security," she called over her shoulder. Not loud, but firm.

Two guards appeared. Jereme saw them and his bravado cracked.

"This isn't over," he said.

"You're right. It's not." Charlotte kept her voice level. "You can consult with your own attorney. You can file a complaint with the medical board. You can do a lot of things. But what you cannot do is threaten hospital staff. So either you calm down, or security will escort you out and you won't be allowed back in until your father's case is resolved."

Helen was crying now, big hiccupping sobs. Jereme's face was red but he stepped back.

"We just want our dad," Helen managed through the tears.

And Charlotte, who'd spent her entire childhood watching her parents fight to save Thomas, who'd stood at his bedside while he died anyway, felt something crack in her chest.

"I know," she said. "But you have to let him go the way he wanted."

The fight went out of Jereme then. He slumped, suddenly looking older. Helen covered her face with her hands.

Charlotte turned to Robby. "You good?"

He nodded. His face was blank, professional. But she saw the way his hands were shaking slightly. Saw the muscle ticking in his jaw.

"I need to check on Sam Wallace," he said. "The Good Samaritan. He's not responding."

He left. Again.

Charlotte stayed with the Spencers while Dana coordinated their father's comfort care. Morphine for the pain. Oxygen. A room divider pulled around the bay to give them privacy. Helen held her father's hand and cried. Jereme stood against the wall, staring at nothing.

After fifteen minutes, Charlotte excused herself. She had three other situations to handle—a potential elder abuse case in Bay Nine, a child services notification for a four-year-old THC overdose, and Gloria from administration was apparently on the warpath about Press Ganey scores again.

She found Gloria at the central nursing station, tablet in hand, looking like she'd swallowed something sour.

"Charlotte. Good. I need you to explain to Dr. Robinavitch that patient satisfaction scores are not optional."

Charlotte rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. The disappointed mother energy was real today.

"Gloria. This is an emergency department. People come here because they're sick or dying. They're not here for customer service."

"They're here for healthcare, which includes a positive patient experience—"

"They're here because they're literally dying." Charlotte gestured at the board behind Gloria. Every bed was full. Red tags indicating critical patients clustered in Trauma One and Two. Yellow tags scattered everywhere else. "Do you see this? Eight percent satisfaction? That's because people are waiting twelve hours to be seen. You know what would improve satisfaction? More nurses. More beds. More doctors. Not telling the ones we have to smile more while they're coding patients."

Gloria's mouth thinned. "The board has made it clear—"

"The board can come down here and work a shift. See how their satisfaction scores look."

"That's not helpful, Charlotte."

"Neither is interrupting trauma cases to talk about Press Ganey scores, but apparently that's happening."

A crash came from Bay Four. Someone shouting. Security already moving.

Gloria flinched. Charlotte didn't.

"I have actual legal issues to handle," Charlotte said. "Was there anything else?"

Gloria looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, she just turned and walked away, heels clicking on linoleum.

Charlotte's phone buzzed. Text from Robby: *Sam Wallace just died. Can you find his next of kin? Police aren't having luck.*

She closed her eyes. Counted to three. Opened them.

*I'll handle it*, she sent back.

Her phone buzzed again immediately. Different number. Lucy's school.

*Hi Ms. Caldwell, just confirming that Lucy will be picked up at 3:15 today per your usual schedule?*

Charlotte checked her calendar. Friday. Her day.

*Confirmed*, she typed.

Another buzz. Robby: *Actually can you take Lucy tonight? I'm not sure when this shift ends.*

Charlotte stared at the text. His shift was supposed to end at 10:00 PM. Fifteen hours. But she knew him. Knew he'd stay later if they needed him. Knew he'd stay until every patient was handled, every crisis managed, every impossible choice made.

*Fine. But you're taking her all weekend.*

*Deal. Thanks.*

She wanted to throw her phone. Instead, she pulled up her contacts and started making calls about Sam Wallace. The Good Samaritan who'd jumped onto train tracks to save a stranger. Who'd hit his head and died trying to do the right thing.

Someone had to tell his family.

Charlotte spent the next hour tracking down Wallace's emergency contact, his employer, finally his ex-wife in Ohio who hadn't spoken to him in three years but was still listed on his paperwork. The woman cried on the phone. Said she'd drive up. Said Sam was always trying to save everybody.

"He never knew when to just save himself," the ex-wife said.

Charlotte thought about Robby, four years ago, trying to save Dr. Adamson. Failing. Blaming himself ever since.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Charlotte said.

She found Robby in the break room an hour later. He was standing at the counter, staring at the coffee maker like it had personally offended him. His white coat was off. There was blood on his scrub sleeve.

"Wallace's ex-wife is driving up from Ohio," she said. "ETA three hours."

"Thanks." He didn't turn around.

Charlotte leaned against the doorframe. The break room was tiny—one table, four chairs, a refrigerator that hummed ominously. Someone had taped up a sign: *IF YOU DIDN'T BRING IT, DON'T EAT IT. YES, THIS MEANS YOU, LANGDON.*

"You should eat something," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Michael. You haven't been fine all day."

"It's just another shift."

"It's the anniversary."

His shoulders tightened. "I'm aware."

"Dana said it's the first time you've worked on this date in four years."

"Dana talks too much."

Charlotte moved into the room. Closed the door behind her. The noise from the ER dimmed to a muted roar.

"You can't keep doing this," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Blaming yourself. Carrying all of it. Adamson, every patient, every impossible choice." She paused. "Us."

He finally turned. His eyes were bloodshot. His face was drawn. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the last ten hours.

"I don't blame myself for us."

"Don't you?"

"Charlotte—"

"You think if you'd just worked less, been home more, paid more attention, we wouldn't have ended. You think it was one more thing you failed at." She shook her head. "But Michael, we didn't fail. We just—we wanted different things. I wanted a partner who was present. You wanted to save the world. Those aren't compatible."

"I never wanted to save the world. I just wanted to do the job."

"The job that ate you alive. That's still eating you alive."

He looked at her for a long moment. Something passed across his face—recognition, maybe, or just exhaustion.

"Sam Wallace jumped onto those tracks to save someone," he said quietly. "He hit his head and now he's dead. Died trying to do the right thing. And I keep thinking—what's the point? What's the fucking point if the Good Samaritans die and the David Saunders run away and the Spencers fight over their father's body while he's still breathing?"

"The point," Charlotte said, "is that you tried. Sam Wallace tried. That matters."

"Does it?"

"Yes." She moved closer. Close enough to see the coffee stain on his collar, the stubble on his jaw, the faint scar above his left eyebrow from the time Lucy had accidentally headbutted him during a bedtime story. "Michael. You saved people today. Multiple people. The triathlete. The train rescue victim—"

"Who died."

"The other one didn't. Minu. The elderly woman. She's going to live because Sam Wallace was brave and because you were good at your job."

"And David Saunders is out there somewhere with a list of girls who should be eliminated."

"Which isn't your fault."

"Isn't it? I let him walk out."

"You didn't 'let' him do anything. He's eighteen. He's not under arrest. You called for a psych evaluation and he ran. There's nothing you could have legally done differently."

"There's always something." His voice cracked. "There's always something I could've done differently. With Adamson, with Wallace, with every patient who dies in this place—"

"Stop." She grabbed his arms. "Michael. Stop. You're not God. You can't save everyone."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Your best. That's all anyone can do. Your best."

They stood there, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, smell the antiseptic and sweat. His eyes were wet. He didn't cry—Michael Robinavitch didn't cry—but his eyes were wet and he looked so goddamn tired.

Charlotte's phone buzzed. She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

She pulled it out. Text from Lucy's school: *Just checking, Ms. Caldwell—pickup at 3:15? We haven't heard confirmation.*

Charlotte looked at the time. 2:47 PM.

"Shit. I have to go get Lucy."

Robby blinked, something shifting in his expression. Guilt. "I forgot—"

"I know. It's fine. I've got her tonight. And all weekend, apparently."

"Charlotte—"

"It's fine, Michael. Really." She stepped back. Put her professional face back on. "But you need to eat. And sleep. And maybe talk to someone. Because this?" She gestured at him, at the break room, at the ER beyond. "This isn't sustainable."

"I don't have a choice."

"You always have a choice."

She left before he could respond. Before she could say anything else. Before she could do something stupid like hug him or tell him she was worried or admit that even after everything, after the divorce and the custody schedule and the careful distance, she still cared. Still wanted him to be okay.

But he wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay in four years. Maybe longer.

Charlotte pushed through the ER doors into the waiting room. It was even more packed now. A new crisis—two people on gurneys being wheeled in, EMTs shouting vitals. Dana directing traffic. Dr. Collins running toward Trauma One, one hand on her stethoscope.

The chaos swallowed everything.

Charlotte kept walking. Through the waiting room, through the main doors, out into the October afternoon. The air was cool. Clean. She could breathe out here.

Her car was in the garage. She had twenty-eight minutes to get across Pittsburgh to Lucy's school. She'd make it. She always made it.

Her phone buzzed. One more text from Robby: *Thank you. For everything.*

Charlotte got in her car. Started the engine. Sat there for a moment with her hands on the wheel.

Then she drove away from the hospital, toward her daughter, toward the life she'd built without him.

In the rearview mirror, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center rose up against the gray sky—all concrete and glass and the weight of too many people trying to do impossible things.

She didn't look back.

Chapter Text

**8 Years Ago**

Charlotte woke up to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and Michael’s fingers tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. Lazy Sunday morning. No court. No ER shift. Just them and the tangled sheets and coffee getting cold on the nightstand.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“I’m not thinking. I’m admiring.” His hand moved lower, following the curve of her spine. “Specifically, I’m admiring your trapezius.”

She cracked one eye open. “You’re admiring my what?”

“Your trapezius. This muscle here.” His fingers pressed gently at the back of her neck, then traced down toward her shoulder blade. “It’s part of the extrinsic back muscles. Moves your scapula.”

“Are you seriously giving me an anatomy lesson right now?”

“I’m seriously admiring your anatomy.” He leaned down and kissed the spot he’d been touching. “You have exceptional posterior cervical musculature.”

Charlotte rolled over to face him. His hair was a mess, standing up in the back. He had pillow lines on his face. He looked about nineteen years old and completely ridiculous.

“Michael Robinavitch. Did you just compliment my neck muscles?”

“I did. And I meant it.” He was trying not to smile. Failing.

“That’s possibly the least sexy thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Really?” His hand slid to her hip. “What about your iliac crest? Because that’s also exceptional.”

“My what?”

He traced the curve of her hip bone with his thumb. “Iliac crest. Top of your pelvis. This bone right here.”

“Stop talking about my bones.”

“Why? They’re good bones. Strong skeletal structure. Excellent bone density—”

She kissed him to shut him up. He made a satisfied sound against her mouth and pulled her closer. His hands were warm on her skin, moving with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how bodies worked.

When they broke apart, she was breathless.

“Okay,” she admitted. “Maybe it’s a little sexy.”

“I knew it.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “You like when I talk medical.”

“I like when you stop talking entirely.”

But she was smiling, and he knew it. He shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at her with those dark eyes that made her forget she’d ever wanted to be a corporate lawyer.

“What about your intercostal muscles?” His fingers traced the space between her ribs, feather-light. “The ones between your ribs. They help you breathe.”

“Michael—”

“Or your pectoralis major.” His hand moved higher, cupping her breast, thumb brushing across her nipple. “Large chest muscle. Adducts and rotates the arm. Also happens to be extremely sensitive to touch in this region—”

“Jesus Christ.” Her breath hitched. “Are you going to name every part of my body?”

“I’m considering it. For educational purposes.”

“I went to Harvard Law. I don’t need anatomy lessons.”

“But you want them.” He kissed her collarbone. “Clavicle.” Then her throat. “Sternocleidomastoid muscle—the big one in your neck.” Then just below her ear. “Mastoid process of the temporal bone.”

Charlotte’s hands fisted in the sheets. “This is ridiculous.”

“This is anatomy.” His mouth moved lower. “And you’re learning. I can tell.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“Because you haven’t kicked me out of bed yet. And because—” He looked up at her, eyes dark. “Your heart rate just increased. I can see your pulse here.” He pressed his thumb gently against her throat. “Carotid artery. Carries blood from your heart to your brain.”

“Robby—”

“Your pupils are dilated. Sign of arousal. Sympathetic nervous system activation.” His hand slid down her body again, slowly. Deliberately. “Your breathing is shallow. Respiratory rate elevated.”

“Are you diagnosing me?”

“I’m observing. It’s what doctors do.” He kissed her hip bone—the iliac crest. “We observe. We learn. We memorize every detail.”

Charlotte arched against him. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” His voice was rough now. “Say trapezius.”

“What?”

“The muscle. Say it.” His mouth moved lower. “Come on, counselor. Use your words.”

“Trapezius,” she gasped.

“Good. Now iliac crest.”

“Iliac crest.”

“Intercostal muscles.”

“Intercostal—oh God—”

He stopped. Looked up at her with that infuriating smile. “You’re a fast learner.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“After. For now—” He moved back up her body, settling between her thighs. “Let’s review.”

An hour later, they were drinking cold coffee in bed. Charlotte’s hair was a disaster. Michael’s neck had marks she’d definitely left there. The sheets were half on the floor.

“Okay,” Charlotte said, tracing patterns on his chest. “Quiz me.”

“What?”

“You spent the last hour giving me an anatomy lesson. Now quiz me.”

Michael laughed. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.” She pressed her finger to his chest. “What’s this?”

“My sternum.”

“And this?” She moved her hand to his side, just below his ribs.

“External oblique. Part of the abdominal wall.”

“And this?” Her hand moved lower.

“Charlotte—”

“I’m learning. It’s educational.” She gave him her most innocent smile. “You said I was a fast learner.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Probably. But first—” She shifted to straddle him. “Teach me about the cardiac system. Specifically—” She placed her hand over his heart. “Why yours is beating so fast.”

“Tachycardia,” he said. His hands settled on her hips. “Elevated heart rate. Caused by—”

“By what, Doctor?”

“By you.” He pulled her down to kiss her. “Always by you.”

Later—much later—they were sprawled across the bed, still tangled together, still not ready to face the world outside this room.

“You know what’s funny?” Charlotte said.

“What?”

“I actually remember all of it. The trapezius. The iliac crest. The intercostal muscles.”

“That’s because you’re brilliant.”

“Or because you’re a very good teacher.”

“Can’t it be both?” He kissed the top of her head. “You should come to the ER. See what it’s really like.”

“You want me to visit you at work?”

“I want you to see what I do all day. When I’m not here. When I’m not with you.”

Charlotte was quiet for a moment. “You love it. The ER. I can tell.”

“I do.”

“More than this?”

He went very still. “Charlotte—”

“It’s okay.” She propped herself up to look at him. “I’m not asking you to choose. I’m just—I’m trying to understand. What it is about that place. What makes you want to go back every time.”

Michael was quiet for a long moment. Then: “When I’m there, I know what I’m supposed to do. Someone comes in bleeding, I stop the bleeding. Someone’s not breathing, I make them breathe. It’s clean. It’s clear. There’s no ambiguity.”

“And here? With me?”

“Here with you is terrifying.” He touched her face. “Because I don’t know how to fix things if they break. I don’t know the protocol for relationships. There’s no textbook. No procedure. I just have to—feel. And hope I’m doing it right.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened. “You’re doing it right.”

“Am I?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You’re with me. You’re teaching me about my own trapezius at—” She glanced at the clock. “Two in the afternoon on a Sunday.”

“Best use of my time off.”

“Absolutely.” She kissed him. Soft. Sweet. “Though I think we need more lessons. For educational purposes.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well.” She moved to straddle him again. “I still don’t fully understand the cardiovascular system. Specifically—” She placed her hand over his heart. “How the heart rate responds to external stimuli.”

“External stimuli?”

“Like touch.” Her hand moved lower. “And pressure. And various forms of—”

He flipped her over, pinning her to the bed. “You’re trouble.”

“I’m a lawyer. It’s in the job description.”

“Lucky me.” He kissed her throat, her collarbone, working his way down. “Lucky, lucky me.”

They spent the rest of Sunday in bed. Learning. Teaching. Memorizing every detail of each other like their lives depended on it.

Charlotte learned the names of fifty different muscles. The difference between systolic and diastolic pressure. How the sympathetic nervous system worked. Why pupils dilated during arousal. The exact location of the radial artery where you could feel someone’s pulse.

Michael learned that Charlotte took her coffee with too much cream. That she was ticklish just below her left ribs. That she made a specific sound—half-laugh, half-gasp—when he kissed the spot behind her ear. That she was brilliant and funny and absolutely terrifying in the best possible way.

They didn’t know, then, that there would be a wedding in six months. A daughter two years later. Fights about his hours and her exhaustion. A slow unraveling of everything that felt so certain in that sunlit bedroom.

They didn’t know that five years later, they’d be divorced. Co-parenting. Carefully polite to each other in hospital hallways.

They didn’t know that Charlotte would remember every single medical term he taught her that day. That she’d use them in her work as hospital counsel. That every time she heard “trapezius” or “iliac crest” or “tachycardia,” she’d think of this moment.

But for now—for this one perfect Sunday—they had each other. They had lazy morning sex and anatomy lessons and cold coffee and the absolute certainty that this, whatever this was, would last forever.

“Michael?” Charlotte said as the sun started to set.

“Yeah?”

“When we’re old and married and have kids and you’re still working yourself to death at the ER—”

“Bold assumptions.”

“—will you still teach me medical terms in bed?”

He pulled her closer. “Always.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He meant it. They both did.

Some promises are just harder to keep than others.