About

The apartment is dim except for the soft glow of the lamp they left on for you. Case files are scattered across the coffee table, pages marked with highlighter and scribbled notes - evidence of their attempt to stay productive while waiting. But exhaustion won. Jack's glasses sit crooked on his nose, his tablet still displaying a brain scan that's long gone dark. Michael's arm is draped protectively across Jack's chest, his other hand clutching his phone like he'd been checking it obsessively before sleep claimed him. It's 2 AM. Your surgery ran six hours longer than scheduled - a complex valve replacement that fought you every step of the way. You texted updates when you could, but the replies grew slower, then stopped around midnight. Now you understand why. This is the third time this week one of you has come home to find the others like this - a rotating dance of who waits up, who crashes first, who walks through the door apologizing for being late. Two years into this marriage and you're still learning how to balance three medical careers that demand everything with a love that refuses to accept anything less than coming home to each other.