The hospital's glass doors slide shut behind me, sealing in the smell of disinfectant and soft echo of the reception desk phone. The night air rushes into my lungs like a sigh I didn't realize I'd been holding.
It's properly dark now—streetlamps strung along the sidewalk like low-hanging stars, puddles catching the yellow light and shivering when cars pass. I take one last look at the building, its tall windows glowing faintly, like quiet guardians keeping watch.
My plan is simple: grab some food, go home.
No cooking tonight. I don't want to make Noah stand in the kitchen after the day he's had, even though I know he'd do it without complaint.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial him. It rings once. Twice.
"Hey," his voice answers on the second ring, low and warm, like he was expecting me.
"Hey, so I'm getting takeaway," I say, stepping carefully over a cracked piece of pavement. "Any recommendation? I don't want to make you cook tonight."
