The first day of residency came earlier than either of them expected.
It snuck up like a thief in the night — stealing the last breath of summer, replacing lazy mornings with alarms set for 5:00 a.m., and trading coffee dates for hospital cafeterias.
Talia stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her new white coat hanging from the hook beside her. Her badge, freshly laminated, read:
Talia Quinn, M.D. — Internal Medicine Resident.
She stared at the letters for a long time.
Somehow, they felt heavier than they looked.
Behind her, Ezra was tying his tie for the third time. He looked cool and calm on the outside, but his eyes betrayed the truth — a touch of fear, a flicker of imposter syndrome.
"I feel like a kid playing dress-up," he muttered.
Talia finally tore her gaze from the mirror and turned to him.
"You're going to be great," she said, stepping closer to fix the knot of his tie. "We both are."
"Yeah?" he asked.
She smiled. "Well, you are. I might faint during rounds."
Ezra snorted. "Only if I don't first."
Their schedules weren't perfectly aligned. Some days they crossed paths on the same floor, a flash of white coat and tired eyes. Other days they didn't see each other at all until late at night, when one would come home to a note taped to the microwave:
Left you leftovers. Eat. Sleep. Love you.
It was harder than they'd imagined — the weight of the work, the pace, the constant pressure to know more, be more, do more.
One night, after a brutal 24-hour shift, Talia stumbled into their apartment, dropped her bag by the door, and collapsed on the couch without even taking her shoes off.
Ezra found her there an hour later.
He sat on the edge of the couch and gently unlaced her sneakers.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
Talia opened one eye. "Define okay."
He chuckled, but it was quiet. Tired.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No," she said. "Just… lie down with me?"
He nodded and curled up beside her, the world narrowing to the quiet hum of the city outside and the warmth of their shared exhaustion.
They learned quickly that love, in this new chapter, wasn't grand gestures. It wasn't spontaneous road trips or passionate arguments resolved with kisses.
It was little things.
A coffee cup left on the counter with the exact amount of sugar.
A sticky note with "You've got this" tucked in a lab coat pocket.
A hand held under the table during morning sign-outs.
And sometimes, it was silence — comfortable and real — where no words were needed.
One Friday, two months in, Ezra came home to find Talia already there, barefoot in the kitchen, sautéing something that smelled like garlic and comfort.
He dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.
"Smells like love."
"Smells like I finally had a day off," she said, laughing.
He kissed her cheek. "Want to take a weekend away? Just us. No beepers, no badges."
She turned in his arms, brow raised. "You planning on seducing me with a two-day Airbnb?"
"Depends. Does it come with hot water and no call shifts?"
She grinned. "Sold."
That weekend, they escaped to the coast.
Nothing fancy. Just them, a quiet cottage by the sea, and the rare luxury of uninterrupted sleep.
On the second night, after a dinner of grilled fish and red wine, they sat on the porch watching stars blink into the sky.
Talia leaned her head on Ezra's shoulder.
"Do you think we'll always feel like we're pretending to be doctors?" she asked.
Ezra looked up. "Maybe. But I also think… that doubt keeps us honest."
She was quiet a moment.
"I was scared, you know. That once we started this, we'd lose what we had."
He turned to face her.
"And have we?"
She shook her head slowly.
"We've just… changed what we had into something real. Something grown-up."
He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.
"I'll take grown-up with you any day."
They sat there in silence, waves crashing gently in the distance, hearts quietly full. They didn't have everything figured out.
But for now, they had love, ambition, and the promise of showing up — day after day — for their patients and for each other.
And sometimes, that was enough.