Night Shift Hearts
"She's a junior doctor working nights at King's College Hospital. He's the porter who brings her coffee at 3 AM without being asked. Between emergencies and exhaustion, they find something worth staying awake for."
At 3 AM, the hospital is a different world.
Fluorescent lights. Skeleton staff. The kind of quiet that makes everything feel significant.
And Mahad, with his coffee cart.
"You look like death," he says, handing me a cup.
"I am death. I'm just delivering it more slowly."
"That's bleak."
"That's medicine." I take the coffee. "Thanks."
He brings coffee every night.
Never asks if I want it. Never expects anything in return. Just appears with caffeine and kindness.
"Why do you do this?" I ask in week three.
"Do what?"
"The coffee. The checking in. You have actual work to do."
"I have time between deliveries." He shrugs. "And you always look like you need it."
"I always need it."
"Then I'll always bring it."
We develop a rhythm.
3 AM coffee. Quick conversations between emergencies. The kind of intimacy that comes from sharing the same dark hours.
"What do you dream about?" he asks one night.
"Sleeping."
"Seriously."
"I don't know anymore." I lean against the wall. "I used to dream about saving lives. Now I dream about having time to live my own."
"That's sad."
"That's residency." I look at him. "What do you dream about?"
"Right now? This."
"This what?"
"This moment." He sets down his cart. "Talking to you. Making your night a little less terrible."
"Why?"
"Because you're the only person in this hospital who actually sees me." He steps closer. "Not the porter. Me."
"I see you."
"I know." His hand finds my face. "That's why I can't stop thinking about you."
We kiss in the supply closet.
It's cliché. It's unprofessional. It's exactly what I needed.
"Mahad—"
"I've wanted this for weeks."
"We could get in trouble—"
"Night shift trouble is the best kind."
We make love between emergencies.
Stolen moments in empty rooms. The kind of relationship that can only exist in the strange hours when normal rules don't apply.
"You're incredible—" he breathes.
"I'm exhausted—"
"Both things." He pushes deeper. "You're incredibly exhausted and exhaustingly incredible."
My residency ends.
Better hours. Normal life. No more 3 AM coffee runs.
"What happens to us?" I ask.
"We adapt." He takes my hand. "I'll bring you coffee at 7 AM instead."
"That's very normal."
"That's very us." He smiles. "We started abnormal. Maybe normal is the adventure."
Normal is the adventure.
Dinners instead of supply closets. Weekends instead of stolen moments. A relationship that survives the night shift and flourishes in daylight.
"Marry me," he says over morning coffee.
"Where's the midnight proposal?"
"We're past midnight." He pulls out a ring. "We're in the sunrise now."
I say yes.
Best prescription I ever wrote.