There was something strange about happiness—it never asked permission to arrive. It simply slipped in, unannounced and unsure, like a stray sunbeam through the clouds.
For Talia, happiness crept in with the quiet rhythm of Ezra's breathing as they sat on the edge of the hospital bed the next morning, hands still intertwined. His father was stable. Not great, but stable. And in a place like this, stability was enough to feel like victory.
They hadn't slept much. Not really. They'd dozed off in turns, Talia curled up in a stiff plastic chair, Ezra sitting by his father's bedside with one eye open and a textbook cracked in his lap like he could study the fear away.
But they'd made it through the night together.
And that was something.
Maybe everything.
By Monday, the chaos of the hospital faded back into the blur of campus life. Classes resumed. Labs intensified. Clinical rotations loomed like tidal waves. Talia found herself back in her routines—but something inside her had shifted.
She was still stubborn. Still fiercely independent.
But now, she let herself lean.
Sometimes just a little.
Sometimes all the way.
It started with Ezra walking her to class. Just once, at first. Then again. And again.
"People are going to talk," she teased as they walked past the library courtyard one morning, their fingers brushing as they moved side by side.
Ezra shrugged. "Let them."
She snorted. "Since when did you become the rebel?"
"Since you," he said simply.
She pretended not to melt. But she did.
Just a little.
Later that week, during a group clinical simulation, Talia caught Ezra watching her as she confidently walked their fake patient through a diagnostic interview. She rattled off questions, reviewed symptoms, asked for medical history. Cool. Precise. Focused.
But his eyes stayed on her—not in awe, but in admiration. Like he was proud.
Afterward, while their classmates packed up, he leaned in and murmured, "Remind me again why I ghosted you the first time?"
She raised a brow. "Because you were scared. And emotionally constipated."
He laughed. "Right. Thanks for the reminder."
They both knew it wasn't funny—not really. But humor was how they survived. How they healed.
And Talia liked the way his laughter sounded now. Less guarded. More honest.
One evening, after a long day of rounds, Ezra invited her over.
They didn't study.
Didn't talk about medicine.
Just sprawled on his bed with a bag of gummy worms, a half-finished Marvel movie playing in the background, and their legs tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I told my mom about you," Ezra said casually.
Talia blinked. "You did?"
"She asked if I was still seeing 'that one with the combat boots and the don't-touch-me attitude.'"
She burst out laughing. "Accurate."
"She likes you," he added. "Said anyone who can keep me out past ten must be a witch."
Talia snorted. "She's not wrong."
Then silence fell again. Not awkward. Just full.
She glanced at him. "I haven't told my mom."
He nodded like he understood.
"She still thinks I'm too messy for anything real," she said quietly. "And maybe I believed her for a while."
He shifted closer. "You're not messy. You're honest. And brave. And human."
Talia looked at him, her heart in her throat. "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I," he admitted. "But maybe that's the point. Maybe we just… figure it out. Together."
She swallowed. "You're really all in, huh?"
Ezra reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"For you?" he said. "Yeah. I am."
That night, they kissed like it meant something.
Because it did.
No more pretending. No more halfway.
Just two hearts—bruised, scared, stubborn—finally beating in the same direction.
The next day, everything nearly unraveled.
Talia was late to class.
Her clinical instructor grilled her in front of everyone.
Then, during rounds, she misread a chart and confused two patients with similar names. It didn't cause harm—just a mix-up caught in time—but it rattled her. Badly.
By the time she got to the locker room, her hands were shaking.
She sat on the bench, pulled her knees up to her chest, and stared at the metal grate below her feet.
She hadn't had a panic attack in months. But it was close.
Then her phone buzzed.
Ezra:
Hey. You breathing?
She didn't answer right away.
Ezra (again):
If you say no, I'm skipping my lab.
A small smile tugged at her lips despite the tightness in her chest.
She typed back:
I messed up. Almost bad.
I'm scared I'm not cut out for this.
His reply came almost instantly:
Everyone messes up. What matters is what you do after.
You're cut out for more than you think.
Meet me at the rooftop?
Fifteen minutes later, she found him on the rooftop again—same blanket, same snacks, the skyline dark and familiar behind him.
He opened his arms without a word.
She stepped into them.
And this time, she let herself fall apart.
Just for a minute.
"Why do you always come here?" she asked later, when the tears dried.
Ezra exhaled. "Because it reminds me that the world is still turning. That no matter what happens… there's more than this moment."
She nodded slowly. "I think I needed to hear that."
He looked at her. "I think I need you."
Talia's heart skipped. "That's not something you just say."
"I know." He paused. "But I mean it."
And somehow, she believed him.
Later, lying on the blanket beside him, she whispered the words she'd been holding back for too long.
"I love you."
The city buzzed below them.
The sky stayed silent.
But Ezra turned to her, eyes wide and soft, and said it back like a promise:
"I love you too."