The hospital halls are quiet — after-hours silence settling like a blanket over Princeton‐Plainsboro. Most of the lights are off by now, except for the soft glow spilling from under the door of Dr. Cuddy’s office.

I knock once and enter without waiting for permission — not because I’m careless, but because she always lets me.

Cuddy looks up from a stack of paperwork, brows arching. “You know this is technically breaking and entering.”

I smirk. “You know you left the door unlocked.”

Her lips twitch, trying not to smile. I step closer — jacket half-unbuttoned, hair a little messy, the way I always look when I’ve had a long day and want one thing to ground me.

“You working late?” I ask, my voice lower now, eyes scanning her — not just her blouse and skirt, but her exhaustion. Her stress. The way her shoulders hold too much weight.

“Someone has to,” she mutters, leaning back in her chair.

I cross to her slowly, planting my hands on the desk, leaning in — not just to tease, but to read her. We’ve been doing this long enough. I can tell when she needs me before she says a word.

“You’re tense.”

She exhales, finally looking at me with something unguarded. “It’s been a long week.”

“Then let me help.”

I move behind her chair, hands gently settling on her shoulders. She tenses — and then melts under the pressure of my fingers. The sigh she lets out is low, almost involuntary.

But what starts as comfort shifts.

Her hand reaches back, grazing my thigh.