Page 76 of Dr. Roz Harrington

“Two and a half.”

“Mm.” Roz’s fingers found the edge of the blanket and tugged it up to Sam’s throat. “Text me.”

“I will.” Sam’s smile turned sly. “Captain’s honor.”

They stood like that as the light strengthened—two women on a small square of balcony, coffee cooling, a cat resettling in a sun patch behind glass. Somewhere below, a bus sighed. A siren sounded, distant and uninterested, then faded. The city gathered itself and stepped into morning. So did they.

Sam finished her coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. “I should shower.”

Roz glanced at the clock inside and hummed in agreement. “You’ll be late if you try to seduce me.”

Sam looked her straight in the eye. “I’m incredibly efficient.”

“I’ve noticed,” Roz said, perfectly dry, perfectly fond. She touched the ribbon again, then smoothed a stray curl back from Sam’s temple. “Come home safe.”

Sam lifted Roz’s hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, just once. “To you,” she said. It had become their benediction.

They moved through the morning choreography they’d built together: Sam in the shower singing off-key, Roz packing her a sandwich and slipping a handwritten note into the pocket because paper still did what texts couldn’t. Percival supervised with disdain. By the door, Sam pulled on her boots and watched Roz fuss with her collar until it lay just so.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Sam said softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you can’t believe I’m real.”

Roz’s mouth curved, and for the briefest, most unguarded second, the truth showed. “Some days,” she admitted.

Sam lifted a hand and cupped the back of Roz’s neck, bringing her close. “I’m not going anywhere.” A beat. “And if I’m late?—”

“You’ll text me,” Roz finished, mock-stern.

Sam kissed her. “I’ll text you.”

The door closed behind her with the soft finality of something right. Roz stood a moment longer than she needed to, listening to the fading footfalls in the hall, the elevator’s distant chime, the quiet that returned and did not hollow.

She gathered the mugs from the balcony, fed Percival, straightened the blanket, and, at the table, opened her laptop. A list of cases waited, consults and notes like a litany. Roz glanced at her phone; a message had already arrived.

On my way. Ribbon secured. Don’t rewrite the entire neurosurgery syllabus before noon. Love you.

Roz felt the smile start in her chest and reach her face on its own. She typed back.

No promises on the syllabus. Every promise on everything else. Come home.

She set the phone down and let her gaze drift to the balcony, to the slice of morning that belonged to them. The ribbon’s color stayed with her as she began her notes—soft, steady, certain as a heartbeat.

The world would keep calling them to fight. To run. To break.

They had learned a different reflex.

By evening, the sky would tip toward gold again. A key would turn in the lock. Boots would thud. A cat would complain. And Roz would look up, rise without thinking, and meet the woman who had become her safest place.

If it wasn’t forever yet, they would keep building.

And she would keep choosing—one dawn, one ribbon, one homecoming at a time.