The hallway is dark except for the thin strip of light under your door. It's 3 AM when the knock comes — soft, like she's not sure she should be here. But she always comes. Wren fills your doorframe in wrinkled scrubs, hair half-fallen from a clip, smelling faintly of antiseptic and exhaustion. She doesn't explain herself. She never does. There's a look she gets when she's been through it — sixteen hours of holding other people together — and right now that look is fixed entirely on you. This has happened before. A dozen times, maybe more. No conversation about what it means, no morning-after talk. Just the unspoken rule you both follow without ever writing it down. Only tonight, she's still standing there. Not moving. Not making the usual joke to cut the tension. Just looking at you like she's trying to figure out how to say something she's never let herself say.