Monday morning started with burnt toast and mismatched socks.
Ezra was already halfway out the door before he realized he was wearing Talia's stethoscope instead of his own. It had a pink band around the diaphragm—a small, sparkly sticker Talia had never removed since second year. He smiled and looped it over the coat rack as he doubled back for his own.
Inside, Talia sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping black coffee and reviewing a radiology case on her tablet. Her hair was messily tied, her scrubs wrinkled from where she'd fallen asleep in them the night before.
"Your stethoscope's trying to ruin my street cred," Ezra teased, tossing it onto the cushion beside her.
"You mean your 'hot nerd with slightly mysterious vibes' brand?" she smirked without looking up.
"Exactly."
She peeked over her screen. "You're safe. No one thinks you're mysterious anymore. You do the dishes too often."
He walked past her, dropped a kiss on her forehead, and grabbed his bag. "I'll remember to leave the plates dirty next time."
"You better not."
Their lives were still full of pagers and deadlines, but something had shifted.
There was less panic. More grace.
They began to build small rituals around the chaos—intentional anchors that reminded them they were more than just residents in endless scrubs.
On Wednesdays, they cooked together. No takeout. Just real food, loud music, and the occasional flour fight.
On Fridays, they walked to the corner bookstore, browsing aimlessly, occasionally reading in the chairs tucked into quiet corners, fingers brushing beneath shared pages.
On Sundays, they slept in.
They still fought, still forgot things, still got overwhelmed. But now, they knew how to name it. How to pause. How to forgive themselves and each other.
One evening, Talia found Ezra asleep on the couch, still in his white coat, his tablet half-open on his chest. She turned off the lamp, pulled a blanket over him, and sat on the floor beside him, leaning back against the couch.
She didn't wake him.
Instead, she watched him breathe. Noticed how tired he looked even in rest. How the little crease between his brows never quite disappeared anymore.
But he was here.
So was she.
Still choosing each other.
Still trying.
Later that week, Ezra found her curled up on the balcony under a gray hoodie, legs tucked under her, her breath fogging up the rim of a mug of tea. It was nearly midnight.
He stepped outside, barefoot, and sat beside her.
"No emergency?" she asked softly.
"No emergency," he confirmed. "Just quiet."
They sat for a while, watching the lights of the city blink like sleepy stars. Somewhere, a dog barked. A siren wailed distantly and faded.
"I used to think we had to do something big to make it worth it," Talia said suddenly. "To prove we deserved this. Us."
Ezra looked at her, thoughtful. "And now?"
She smiled faintly. "Now I think this—just being here, being okay—is enough."
Ezra reached for her hand. Held it gently.
It was rough around the edges—just like them. But steady.
"It's more than enough," he said.
There were no declarations that night. No dramatic twists or last-minute surprises.
Just the sound of two hearts beating in sync.
A breath of stillness.
A
moment of peace.
And the quiet, extraordinary pulse of ordinary days.