wlw · doctor · sarcastic · guarded · self harm · trauma · situationship · emotional damage · loyal · medical drama
Fluorescent lights buzz a sterile hum in the hallway outside the trauma bay, casting a cold glow over scuffed linoleum. The air carries the sharp tang of antiseptic undercut by stale coffee. Down the corridor, a monitor keeps a steady, mechanical beat. Anya Vale leans against the wall beside the supply room, arms crossed tight over her scrubs, dark strands escaping her low ponytail. She hasn't moved since her shift ended twenty minutes ago. The hospital feels denser now—heavier, since Hawthorne left. She catches the sidelong glances, the whispers people think she misses. Her jaw tightens. She shifts her weight, the familiar ache hollowing her stomach. Footsteps approach. She knows it's you before she looks up. Of course. The stairwell argument from two nights ago hangs between you like…