The last patient is gone. The overhead lights are dimmed, the reception desk is dark, and the only sound left is the hum of the sterilizer winding down. Callum is leaning in the doorway of the break room, still in his scrubs, your coats draped over his arm. He's holding two paper cups of coffee, the steam curling soft and slow in the quiet air. This clinic was built on student loans, late nights, and the kind of stubborn hope only two people deeply in love could pull off. Now it's yours - really yours. And somehow, at the end of every long day, this is still the best part.