who: ezra & taren | @mindsbeat where: an on call room
ezra shouldn’t have come. he knows that the second he steps into the on call room, the door hissing shut behind him like it’s trying to trap him with the ghost of every dumb decision he’s ever made. the overhead light buzzes in that faintly malevolent hospital way—too bright, too cold—but the room smells like lavender hand sanitizer and someone’s half-eaten ramen, so the ambiance is on brand. he crosses to the cot and drops his weight onto it like he owns the place, which he kind of does, in the way all exhausted attendings claim territory. his knee bounces. he rubs the back of his neck. he tries not to think about the last time taren looked at him like she wanted to start a fire just to feel something. the problem isn’t that they flirted earlier—it’s that it didn’t feel like a problem at all. he could’ve ignored the text, in fact he should’ve. he has half a dozen good reasons not to entertain it: patients, charts, boundaries, the whole traumatic scrapbook of their med school disaster years. but instead, he'd paused in the stairwell, reread the message like it was a lifeline instead of a spark on a powder keg, and texted back: "third floor attending's lounge, ten minutes." now he’s here, elbows on his knees, trying not to pace or punch something or remember how taren used to fall asleep mid-rant on his couch with takeout noodles hanging out of her mouth. he huffs a laugh under his breath. it sounds like someone else’s voice. god, he’s an idiot. the doorknob clicks. ezra doesn’t move—just glances up, just enough to catch her in the reflection of the window. she looks the same and nothing like he remembers. same chaotic energy, same perfect storm. different ring on her finger, different shadows under her eyes. he tips his head back, mouth tugging up into a smirk that’s more habit than heat. "long time no bad decision."