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The California winds had died down hours ago, but they left behind a dry, lingering heat that only began to break when the sun dipped below the horizon.
It was now nine in the evening and inside your small studio apartment, the draft slipped easily through the old window frames. But you were far too gone to care about adjusting the radiator.
You were currently buried alive under a mountain of flashcards and index cards.
Perhaps an overstatement, but oh well.
You sat cross-legged on your desk chair and your feet were tucked beneath your thighs for added warmth. On the desk in front of you sat the holy grail of your misery: Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy, propped open to a highly intimidating, multi-colored plate illustrating the intricate web of the brachial plexus.
"Roots, trunks, divisions, cords, branches..." You pinched the bridge of your nose, "C5, C6... wait, does the musculocutaneous nerve arise from the lateral cord or the posterior cord?"
You flipped over a handwritten index card
Lateral cord.
"Dammit.”
The anatomy practical was in less than twelve hours, and your head was spinning.
This wasn't undergrad anymore.
In undergrad, you had never felt the need to pull an all-nighter; having a week of review always seemed like plenty of time. Even if you only studied for a day or two before an exam, it was still possible to walk away with a B… sometimes even an A if you were lucky.
But now, in medical school, the sheer volume of information felt like trying to drink from a fully opened firehose. What was worse, the results of your first two anatomy exams had been barely passing. If you didn’t do well tomorrow, you would be spending the rest of the semester playing a desperate, exhausting game of catch-up.
Your anxiety was eating you alive.
You weren't a genius.
That much you knew.
You were in the belief that you were just an average student who had crawled your way into this program through stubborn grit.
And right now, even that same grit was wearing thin.
You reached for another card, when a pattern of knocks sounded at your front door.
Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
Your hand froze over the desk and your gaze fell on the peeling paint of your apartment door.
Nobody had that knock except one person, but he was supposed to be in Encino, recovering from the grueling final leg of the tour that had wrapped up merely a week ago. You hadn't seen him in over two months, save for a few hurried, long-distance phone calls from hotel rooms.
Pushing yourself up from the chair, your knees cracking in the quiet room, you hurried over to the door and peered through the small peephole.
Sure enough, it was him.
You hurriedly unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Michael stood there in the corridor.
He looked effortlessly casual, a dark wool jacket slung over one shoulder and his damp curly hair pulled back from his face. Even in a simple black corduroy shirt and jeans, his presence completely filled the narrow hallway, smelling faintly of the crisp autumn air outside and his familiar cologne.
"Surprise.”
A boyish smile crept across his lips.
You stood with your own mouth slightly agape, your brain temporarily failing to translate the sight of him into reality.
"Michael? What... what are you doing here?"
But before he could even answer, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck. Michael let out a huff of laughter, his free arm immediately winding around your waist to pull you close to him.
He felt warm and incredibly real.
He buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, holding you just as tight that told you exactly how much he’d missed you on the road.
"I had to see you baby," he whispered against your skin, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back through your thick sweatshirt. "I couldn't stay away another day."
When you finally pulled back, you looked down and noticed what he was holding in his other hand. It was a beverage tray holding two paper coffee cups with thin plastic lids.
"I stopped by the diner down the street," he said, holding the tray up slightly. "I know how you get during exam weeks. You just stare at those books until your eyes turn red. Bill dropped me off and I told him I'd call in the morning. He would’ve said hi but he also said he wanted to ‘leave us lovebirds alone’."
You glanced past his shoulder, peering down the empty corridor as if half-expecting his usual shadow of bodyguards to be lingering by the stairs.
"You're crazy.”
A helpless smile finally broke through your exhaustion.
You grabbed his wrist, pulling him inside and shutting the door, locking it securely behind him. "You just got off tour. You're supposed to be resting, Michael."
"I am resting," he insisted, tossing his wool jacket onto your small entryway armchair. He set the coffee tray down on your tiny dining table and turned to look at you, his eyes scanning your tired face, the dark circles under your eyes, and your messy hair. His expression softened. "But you're not."
Michael picked up one of the warm paper cups, carefully peeling back the flat plastic tab on the lid. A small puff of steam escaped, carrying the rich scent of diner drip coffee. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours.
"Here. Black, with just a splash of milk. That’s still how you like it, right?"
"Of course, thank you.” When you took a sip, the warm liquid hit your throat, sending a much-needed jolt of heat through your tired frame. "But seriously, Mike, look at this place. I didn't have time to clean. I'm sorry. It’s a disaster in here."
Michael let his eyes wander over your small studio.
To anyone else, the apartment would look like it was ransacked. Your desk was buried under textbooks, highlighters, and open notebooks filled with cramped handwriting. The bed wasn't spared either—flashcards were scattered across the mattress, interspersed with your own handwritten index cards.
A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Come on, you’ve seen my room. Yesterday, Bill almost tripped over a giant paper machè Peter Pan head because I left it right in the middle of the doorway. Besides, you’re studying so this is perfectly fine."
"No, it’s really bad," you said, setting your coffee down.
You immediately went to the edge of the bed, frantically gathering handfuls of flashcards to clear a small patch of space on the mattress.
"Here, let me just... you can sit here. I’m sorry I can’t give you my undivided attention tonight. I feel terrible. You literally just got back from tour and I’m just here muttering words at a wall."
"Hey," Michael said softly. He stepped closer and gently caught your wrists, stopping your frantic clearing. "Stop. You don't have to apologize for working hard. I knew you would be busy, I don’t blame you for that. If anything, I feel bad for dropping by unannounced and distracting you. I just…I just really wanted to see you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just sit right here and watch you be brilliant."
You looked up into his eyes and the tension in your shoulders, which had been locked tight for days, finally began to melt just a fraction.
"Mike, you can never be a distraction. And… I really missed you too…” you said shyly. “But, I'm far from brilliant right now, nor ever. I'm mostly just confused."
"I can help. If you want?” he offered with a grin. He sat down on the cleared edge of your bed, kicked his loafers off and pulled his legs up then crossing them. He reached out and swept up a neat stack of your handwritten flashcards, shuffling them with practiced, elegant hand movements. "Go on. Sit back down."
You hesitated, looking from him to the clock on your desk. It was already past 9:30 PM. "Mike, you don’t have to. And the words are... complicated. It's not fun."
"Have some faith in me," he teased, giving you a playful nudge with his foot. "Come on. Let me test you."
He pulled a card from the top of the deck. He squinted at your handwriting, his brow furrowing in deep concentration.
He took a breath, trying to parse the syllables. "Okay... identify the muscle that inserts into the... ah-poh-noo-roh-sis of the... pal-mar-is lon-gus?"
You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled past your lips, the first real laugh you'd had in days. "It’s aponeurosis, Mike."
"That’s what I said!" he protested with an amused smile on his face. "Aponeurosis. See? I’m a natural. Now, what's the answer?"
"Hmm… the muscle that inserts into the palmar aponeurosis is the palmaris longus itself." You turned your chair around, resting your elbows on the backrest, fully engaging in the back-and-forth. "Action is flexing the wrist. Innervation is the median nerve."
Michael flipped the card over, his eyes scanning your messy notes. "Yes! Flexes wrist, weak elbow flexor, median nerve. You got it! See? You're doing amazing."
"Okay, do another one," you said, a small spark of hope finally reigniting in your chest.
Michael grinned, thoroughly enjoying his new role. He pulled the next card and frowned, his lips parting slightly as he stared at the words. "Oh boy. This one is a mouthful. What is the... ex-ten-sor... di-gi-to-rum... lon-gus?"
"Extensor digitorum longus," you supplied automatically, a tired smile on your face.
"Yeah, that," he said, laughing softly at his own struggle. "What does it do and what's the nerve?"
"Dorsiflexes the foot and extends the lateral four toes. Innervation is the deep fibular nerve."
"Nice. Perfect," Michael said, throwing his head back slightly in excitement. "You're great at this. Why are you so stressed out? You know all of the answers."
"I know them when I'm sitting here with you, relaxed," you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "But when I'm in that lab, and the buzzer rings, and I have exactly sixty seconds to look at a cadaver with a tiny red pin stuck through a microscopic nerve... my brain just goes completely blank, Mike. I feel like they're going to realize they made a mistake letting me into this school."
Michael’s smile faded, replaced by a look of understanding. He set the stack of flashcards down on his lap and leaned forward.
"They didn't make a mistake," he said. "I've watched you study since undergrad. I've seen how much heart you put into this. You care so much, and that's why you're scared. But you belong there. You just have to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you."
For a moment, a monolithic quiet settled over the apartment.
The distant sound of LA traffic seemed to fade away, leaving only the warmth of his gaze. You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding softly.
"Thank you.”
"Of course… now, let’s see," Michael said, breaking the heavy mood with a clap of his hands. "Let's do the next one. This one looks like a spell from a movie."
An hour and then another had slipped away in a blur of Latin terms and anatomical pathways. The empty paper coffee cups sat cold on the corner of the desk, and the quiet chill of the October night had deepened.
You were in the middle of tracing the path of the femoral artery when you heard a soft sigh behind you.
You turned around. Michael was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but his shoulders were slumped. His chin was resting in his palm, his long eyelashes fluttering as he fought to keep his eyes open. He let out a silent yawn, his shoulders shivering slightly as he tried to shake off the fatigue.
"Mike," you said softly, resting your pen on your notepad.
He blinked rapidly, his head snapping up as he tried to look alert. "Huh? Yeah? I’m listening."
"You’re exhausted.” A wave of fondness and guilt washed over you. You stood up and walked over to the bed. "I know you’re tired. You need to sleep."
"No, no, I’m fine," he protested, though his voice betrayed him as it sounded thick and sleepy. He reached for the stack of flashcards again, but his fingers were clumsy. "I want to help you. I’m not leaving you awake by yourself. It’s not fair."
"Michael, please. It’s almost midnight." You gently took the cards from his hand and set them on the nightstand. "Just take a nap. Lay down under the duvet even just for a little bit."
He frowned, looking genuinely torn. "I’d feel bad. It’s disrespectful to just crash while you’re sitting there working so hard."
"It’s not disrespectful," you countered, offering a small smile as you grabbed the edge of the heavy, quilted duvet and pulled it back.
Michael looked at the inviting, messy warmth of the bed, then up at you. "Maybe just a quick nap, then," he murmured. "Ten minutes. And if I don't wake up on my own, you can wake me up."
"Of course," you said, smoothing down the pillow.
Although, looking at the exhaustion in his eyes, you had already made a decision.
He let out a defeated sigh and slid onto the mattress. He didn't even take off his black corduroy shirt, he just curled onto his side, pulling his knees up slightly. As soon as his head hit your pillow, his eyes fluttered shut.
You pulled the duvet up over his shoulders, tucking it around him. He let out a soft, contented hum, his breathing slowing down almost instantly.
You stood there for a few more seconds, just watching him. In the dim light of your desk lamp, the defined lines of his cheekbones and jaw softened. He looked incredibly young, stripped of the massive stage lights and the screaming crowds. He was just a tired twenty-three-year-old boy, sleeping soundly in a cramped apartment.
Turning back to your desk, you sat down and tried to focus.
Ten minutes came and went. You looked over your shoulder at him. He hadn't moved an inch, his chest rising and falling with ease.
There really was no way you were going to wake him.
You turned back to your books. One hour passed. And then two.
By 2:30 AM, the words on the pages of Netter's began to swim. You stared at a diagram of the foot, but your eyes couldn't focus; the nerves and blood vessels blurred into a messy tangle of red and blue lines. You read the same sentence four times without retaining a single word.
A cold spike of panic flared in your chest, quickly collapsing into profound, heavy defeat.
I can’t do this, you thought, your throat tightening. Everyone else in my class is probably studying right now, pushing through, and my brain is completely shutting down.
A frustrated tear slipped down your cheek. You felt incredibly small, incredibly tired, and utterly overwhelmed. The pressure of medical school felt like a physical weight crushing your ribs.
Realizing that staring at the book in this state was completely useless, you begrudgingly closed the heavy textbook. You neatly stacked your flashcards, cleared the desk, and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into the soft shadows of the moonlight filtering through the window.
Shivering in the chilly room, you crept over to the bed. You carefully lifted the edge of the duvet, trying not to disturb Michael, and crawled onto the mattress beside him. The sheets were incredibly warm from his body heat. You pulled the heavy blanket up to your chin, curling into a tight ball, your back to him.
The bed shifted.
A warm, heavy arm slid over your waist, pulling you backward until your back was pressed against Michael’s chest. He let out a sleepy rumble, his breath warm against the back of your neck.
"What time is it?" he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and rough from sleep.
"It's almost three," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. "Go back to sleep, Mike."
He shifted, resting his chin on your shoulder, his thumb lazily stroking your hip through your thick sweatshirt. "You didn't wake me up."
"You needed the sleep."
"You're shaking," he noted, his tone turning instantly alert. He squeezed you a little tighter, pulling you closer into his warmth. "Are you okay? What happened?"
"My brain stopped working," you confessed, a quiet sob escaping your throat before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears fall onto the pillow. "I couldn't do it. I had to stop. I'm going to fail, Mike. I don't know what I'm doing."
He didn't offer any empty platitudes, he knew you better than to do that. Instead, he slowly rolled you over so you were facing him. In the dim moonlight, his dark eyes were wide and devastatingly soft. He reached up, his warm fingers gently brushing the wet tears from your cheeks, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice incredibly soft. "Look at me."
You blinked through your tears, focusing on his face.
"You’re not going to fail," he said, each word deliberate and firm. "You're just tired. Your brain is telling you to rest, and that's okay. You've worked so hard all week. One night of sleep isn't going to ruin everything you've built."
"But what if—"
"No 'what ifs'," he interrupted gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. "You're going to sleep now. And in the morning, you're going to wake up, look at those cards one more time, and you're going to realize you know way more than you think. I believe in you. I know how smart you are. Now let me hold you."
He pulled your head down to rest against his chest, right over his heart.
The steady sound of his heartbeat was the most grounding sound in the world.
He wrapped both arms around you, tucking the duvet securely over your shoulders, creating a warm cocoon against the cold night and the stress of the outside world.
You let out a shaky breath, your hand resting against his chest, gripping his shirt. The panic in your mind slowly quieted, replaced by the sheer comfort of his presence.
"Okay," you whispered against his chest. "Okay."
"Goodnight, baby," he murmured. He kissed the crown of your head, his hand slowly rubbing your back in slow circles until both of your breathing synchronized, and you finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The middle of October brought a softer warmth back to the city, but by the time you climbed the steps to your apartment, all you could feel was the hammering beat of your own heart.
In your hand, you clutched a folded piece of paper. It was the official grade printout from the anatomy department.
You had spent the entire walk home from the campus library staring at the ink, terrified it would somehow fade or morph into a different number.
But the digits remained stubbornly, beautifully unchanged: 78%.
In undergrad, that grade might have prompted a sigh of disappointment from you.
But now in medical school, where the class average floated in the low seventies and the practical had left half your peers in tears, a seventy-eight was a glorious, hard-won, triumphant pass. You had survived your first practical.
You unlocked your apartment door, your keys jingling loudly in your shaking hands.
Your plan had been to drop your heavy backpack, sprint to the telephone, and dial Michael’s private line before you even took off your shoes.
But when the door swung open, you didn't find an empty studio.
The heavy, mouth-watering scent of fried chicken and buttery biscuits immediately hit you. Standing by your tiny kitchen counter, clad in a simple black-and-yellow striped polo shirt and his favorite black trousers, was Michael.
He was busy arranging a stack of paper napkins next to a large, familiar red-and-white striped bucket from Kentucky Fried Chicken.
He stopped what he was doing and turned around, his eyes instantly locking onto yours.
He had been waiting.
He knew today was the day the grades were posted.
For a second, neither of you said a word. He looked at you, his eyes scanning your wide-eyed expression and the slip of paper clutched in your hand.
Then, you let out an ecstatic laugh.
Michael’s face instantly lit up. A grin split across his features, his dark eyes sparkling.
"You got it.”.
"I passed, Mike!" you squealed, the sheer relief bursting out of you. "I actually passed!"
You dropped your backpack onto the floor and threw the grade slip onto the table. Michael met you halfway, catching you in his arms as you practically threw yourself at him. He lifted you right off your feet, spinning you around once in the cramped space between your bed and the dining table.
Your laughter echoed in the small room. He set you down but didn't let go, wrapping his arms tightly around your shoulders, burying his face in your neck. He squeezed you so hard you could barely breathe, but you didn't care. You hugged him back just as fiercely, your hands gripping the soft cotton of his shirt.
"I knew it," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with unbridled pride. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders as he shook you gently. "I told you! What did I tell you? I knew you could do it."
"I got a seventy-eight," you said, your eyes shining. "The average was a seventy-two. Michael, I didn't just scrape by this time. I actually did okay."
"Baby you did better than okay," he corrected softly, his thumb sweeping across your cheek as he gave you a tender kiss on your temple. He let his lips linger there for a second, a reassuring gesture that made the last remaining knots of stress in your shoulders completely unravel. "You worked so hard for this. I'm so proud of you."
"I couldn't have done those lower extremity cards without you," you said, leaning your head against his chest. "Seriously. Your pronunciation of extensor digitorum longusmust have been my good luck charm."
Michael let out a soft, melodic laugh, his chest vibrating against your cheek. "No, no. Don't go giving me the credit. That was all you. You stayed up, you put the hours in, and you believed in yourself."
He stepped back, gesturing proudly to the small dining table. Aside from the bucket of fried chicken, there were small tubs of mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw, and a box of warm cherry turnovers from the bakery down the street.
"When you said the results would be released today, I wanted to make sure we had a real feast when you passed," he said, his eyes crinkling.
You leaned your hip against the edge of the table, looking up at him. "But what if I had failed?"
"Then we'd eat to make you feel at least a little bit better," he said, his gaze softening into that unwavering certainty he always had when it came to you. "But I knew you'd pass anyway."
You looked at the spread, then gave him a playful, skeptical look. "So... you decided on takeout. You didn't want to try your hand at the stove again?"
Michael’s cheeks instantly flushed a faint, dusty rose. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking highly sheepish. "Hey, I promised I wouldn't do that again. I'm keeping my promise."
You couldn't help but smile, the memory of your junior year of undergrad flashing vividly in your mind. Michael had wanted to surprise you with a romantic, candlelit anniversary dinner. He had attempted to sauté vegetables and bake a chicken, only to completely forget about the burner while he was busy setting the table. You had walked into the apartment building to the sound of smoke alarms and the sight of Michael frantically waving a dish towel at a billowing cloud of black smoke, looking absolutely terrified.
"Probably for the best," you teased, walking over to pull out a chair. "The landlord still asks me why the kitchen ceiling has that faint gray smudge in the corner."
"It was a very small fire," Michael protested, though he was laughing, his shoulders shaking as he sat down across from you. "And the chicken was actually salvageable. Mostly."
"It was charcoal, Mike."
"It was just very well-done," he corrected, his eyes dancing with mischief as he passed you a paper plate.
As you both piled your plates with comfort food, the atmosphere in the apartment settled into a comfortable silence.
There were no textbooks open on the desk, no stacks of index cards cluttering the bed, and no heavy blanket of anxiety suffocating the air.
You reached out, lacing your fingers through his under the dim kitchen light. Michael didn't speak, only offering a gentle squeeze that said everything he had spent the evening trying to prove.
The world outside your door could demand whatever it wanted. But with him, you could finally let the weight drop. You didn't have to carry the day, or face the morning, or be ready for either.