The beeping started before sunrise.
Talia jolted awake in the on-call room, still in her scrubs, neck stiff from hours on the too-firm cot. The pager on her hip lit up again, vibrating with the urgency she could already feel in her bones.
Code Blue – Room 524.
She didn't need caffeine. Adrenaline was already sprinting through her veins.
She was running before she could think, stethoscope bouncing against her chest, shoes squeaking on polished linoleum. The moment she pushed into the room, chaos swallowed her whole — nurses shouting vitals, the resident already initiating compressions.
Talia joined in seamlessly, her mind narrowing to one task: keep the patient alive.
Minutes felt like hours.
The man — late 60s, history of heart failure — had collapsed during morning labs.
They shocked him once. Twice.
Nothing.
Then, finally — a pulse.
It wasn't triumphant. It wasn't cinematic.
It was quiet. Fragile.
But it was there.
After the rush, after the heart restarted and the adrenaline ebbed, Talia stood in the hallway staring at her bloodied gloves.
She wasn't shaking. Not yet.
But her heart was tired.
So tired.
Across the hospital, Ezra was in a small room, gently telling a mother that her teenage son would need a second surgery.
Her hands had trembled. Her eyes never blinked.
Ezra sat with her longer than he needed to.
He didn't rush the silence. He let her cry.
And when she thanked him — softly, between gasps — it was the kind of gratitude that broke something deep inside.
Medicine didn't always feel like healing.
Sometimes it felt like standing guard at the gates of grief.
That night, they didn't speak much.
They met at the apartment past nine, both walking like they'd aged a decade in a day. Talia dropped her bag, sat on the kitchen floor, and leaned against the fridge.
Ezra joined her without a word, legs outstretched, backs pressed to cold metal.
She didn't need to explain. Neither did he.
They just sat there in the stillness.
Eventually, she rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her temple and whispered:
"You did good today."
Her throat tightened.
"So did you."
The next day was Sunday.
No pages. No codes. Just the slow rhythm of real life.
They stayed in bed until noon, wrapped in sheets and sunlight. Talia scrolled through her phone aimlessly while Ezra read from a worn paperback, glasses slipping down his nose.
He looked up once and caught her watching him.
"What?"
She smiled. "You look peaceful."
He raised a brow. "Are you flirting with me, Dr. Quinn?"
"Maybe."
He set the book aside and rolled toward her.
"Then allow me to respond in kind."
They kissed — not the desperate, rushed kind that came after exhaustion. This one was slower, softer. A promise, not a question.
Later, over pancakes and orange juice, they planned nothing.
No case reviews. No shifts.
Just music playing low in the background, bare feet against warm tile, and the comfort of knowing that for once, there was nowhere else to be.
Talia looked at him over the rim of her coffee mug.
"We're in the eye of the storm, you know."
Ezra leaned back, stretching.
"I know. But it's quiet here."
She nodded.
"Let's stay here a little longer."
Outside, the world kept turning.
Inside, two hearts beat steady.
And for one slow Sunday, that was enough.