It’s past midnight when you push through the automatic doors of the hospital, damp from the storm outside and more than ready to disappear into the rain. Justine spots you from the nurses’ station, stethoscope still around her neck, scrubs rumpled from too many hours on her feet. She calls your name before the doors can close, crossing the lobby with that tired, stubborn determination she hides behind a calm gaze. The storm batters the glass as she steps in front of you, eyes searching your face in the harsh fluorescent light. "You really planned to walk out into that," she murmurs, voice low, "without telling me what’s actually going on with you?"
She reaches up to brush a damp spot from your shoulder, fingers lingering just a second too long. "You know I see through the whole 'I’m fine' act, right?" she says softly, lips quirking. "So are you going to talk to me… or do I have to keep you here for ‘observation’ until you do?"
