ALEXANDER
My office on the eighth floor was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft click of my pen against the mahogany desk. I reviewed the updated OR schedule for the next two weeks—three complex valve replacements, two aortic dissections, and a delicate pediatric pulmonary atresia case that would need neurosurgery coordination. Methodically, I signed clearances, adjusted resident rotations, and flagged one case for an extra attending.
This was routine.
This was control.
The steady rhythm of administrative work kept the sharper edges of my mind occupied.
I had just finished marking a note on a post-operative protocol when my phone buzzed. A quick reply to biomedical engineering, then the device was face-down again. But my thoughts refused to stay on task. They drifted back to this morning.
Dashiell had been upset about the safety kit. His stimming had intensified, his voice cracked, and he'd cried.
But I wasn't hurt by what I saw.
Hurt implied wounded feelings, and I wasn't entirely sure what those felt like.
What I felt was colder.
He had spent anxious nights researching how to protect himself.
Not from strangers.
Not from criminals.
From me.
Rationally, it made sense. I had watched him for eight years before our marriage. I knew his autism drove those research spirals when he felt overwhelmed. I understood his patterns better than anyone.
That didn't mean I liked it.
When he stood in front of me and said I was preparing for the day I lost control, something inside me simply shut down.
Walking away had been the correct decision.
If I had stayed, I would have tried to fix the situation immediately.
And when I wanted something fixed, I had a tendency to push too hard.
Distance had been safer.
For both of us.
Still, the image lingered: the tears, the frantic tapping of his fingers, the look on his face when I pulled away.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. He was probably on his floor right now, replaying the morning on an endless loop, trying to make sense of it.
I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen.
The logical response was to give him space.
So why was I already calculating exactly how long that space should last?
Five hours?
Three?
One?
The thought irritated me. I set the phone down, only to pick it up again two seconds later.
The cold, pragmatic part of my mind whispered:
He researched how to escape you.
He prepared for the possibility of needing to run.
I wasn't angry.
I was assessing.
I had bought the kit for a simple reason.
I know what I am.
And deep down, Dashiell does too.
Most people spend their lives pretending they're incapable of terrible things.
I have never had that luxury.
If the day ever came when I lost control, I wanted him to have every possible advantage—not so he would leave, but so he could choose to stay.
Yet there was another part of me.
Darker.
Quieter.
The part that wanted to know exactly how far he would run... and how far I would go to bring him back.
The answer to the second question was one I deliberately avoided examining.
I locked the phone and messaged my secretary instead:
Clear my schedule after 3 PM. I'll be unavailable.
The reply came instantly.
Of course, Dr. Astor.
The office remained silent. Orderly. Controlled.
Yet my thoughts kept circling back to one person.
Dashiell.
And for the first time in a very long time, I felt uncertain about what to do next.
I stared at my phone for another thirty seconds before unlocking it—not to text him, but to check his schedule.
Neurology clinic until noon.
Consults after lunch.
Two EEG reviews.
One pediatric case.
No gaps longer than fifteen minutes.
I frowned.
Irritation flared again.
When Dashiell was distressed, his solution was always the same: bury himself in work and ignore his own needs.
I had spent years watching him do exactly that.
My thumb hovered, then typed.
Have you eaten?
I stared at it and deleted the message.
Too emotional.
Remember to take your lunch break.
Deleted again.
Worse.
Ridiculous.
I had performed open-heart surgery on infants weighing less than three kilograms.
Yet somehow sending Dashiell Harper a text message felt more complicated.
The phone buzzed.
I snatched it up—only to find it was my secretary.
Your 11:30 meeting has been moved to tomorrow.
I glanced at the clock.
Then at Dashiell's schedule.
Then a thought occurred to me.
A very bad thought.
My expression stayed perfectly neutral.
Five minutes later, I stepped out of the elevator onto the neurology floor. Several nurses straightened immediately. A resident nearly dropped his chart. I ignored them all, my attention locked on the glass-walled workstation at the center of the floor.
Dashiell was there, head down, working. Of course he was. Three charts spread across the desk, laptop open, a half-finished cup of coffee beside his elbow. His left hand tapped rapidly against his thigh in a repetitive rhythm. The stimming was worse than usual.
I stopped walking.
A nurse approached cautiously. "Dr. Astor?"
"Has he eaten lunch?" I asked, eyes never leaving Dashiell.
The nurse blinked. "Dr. Harper?" She glanced over. "I… don't think so."
Of course not.
Twenty minutes later, I returned with food. The entire floor watched me cross the corridor with the paper bag. The tapping didn't stop until I placed it directly on top of the chart Dashiell was reading.
Dashiell froze. Slowly, he looked up. Hazel eyes met black. The silence stretched—one second, two, three.
"You skipped lunch," I said.
Dashiell stared at me, then at the bag, then back again. "I wasn't hungry."
"A lie."
"It isn't."
I held his gaze a moment longer before pulling out the chair beside the workstation and sitting down. The entire neurology floor suddenly became very interested in their computer screens.
"You haven't eaten all day."
A faint flush crept up Dashiell's neck. Neither of us had touched breakfast this morning.
Dashiell glanced at the bag. "You came all the way down here for this?"
"Apparently."
The flush deepened.
Interesting.
I made a mental note.
"You could have texted," he said.
"I tried."
Dashiell blinked. "What?"
"I drafted several messages." I regretted admitting it immediately—not because I cared about the vulnerability, but because of the way he was now looking at me. That soft, hopeful look that made people think I had actual feelings.
"Three," I added flatly.
Dashiell's lips twitched. "Three?"
"I deleted them."
Amusement flickered in his eyes. I disliked it instantly. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Find this entertaining."
The corner of his mouth lifted anyway. The tapping had stopped completely. Another interesting observation.
Dashiell finally opened the bag. The smell of food filled the workstation. He pulled out the sandwich and narrowed his eyes. "You got my usual order."
"I know your usual order."
"You *remember* my order."
I stared at him. We had been married for almost a month. Dashiell owned six nearly identical cardigans in slightly different shades, and I knew which one he preferred on rainy days. A sandwich order was hardly noteworthy.
"You are remarkably easy to study," I said.
Dashiell made a strangled sound and took a bite before I could press further—a tactical retreat. Smart.
I watched him eat. Only when half the sandwich was gone did the tight knot in my own chest finally begin to loosen.
There it was. The real problem.
I hadn't come downstairs because of the safety kit, or the argument, or even the tears. I had come because Dashiell was upset.
And I disliked it when Dashiell was upset.
Dashiell swallowed. "Are you still mad at me?"
I considered the question carefully. "No."
Dashiell searched my face. "Then why have you been acting like this?"
*Because I didn't like seeing fear in your eyes. Because I didn't like that you thought you needed protection from me. Because walking away was easier than explaining any of that.*
Instead, I gave the truth I could tolerate. "I was thinking."
Dashiell snorted softly. "That's somehow more concerning."
For the first time that day, the corner of my mouth twitched. And just like that, the tension between us eased.