Mark
When I stepped into her home, the first thing that struck me wasn’t how nice it was—it was how intentional it felt. Every inch of the space looked chosen, not to impress, but to survive. Warm light, clean lines, softness where it mattered. A place built to land after long days when lives hung in the balance.
It was exactly what I imagined a trauma doctor’s home would be. Not extravagant. Not cold. Just… steady.
I closed the door behind us and followed her in, my steps quieter than usual. I wasn’t nervous—but I was aware. Being here felt different than walking into any room I controlled. This wasn’t my world. This was hers.
The open kitchen caught my eye first. White cabinets, wood accents, a farmhouse sink. Lived-in without being cluttered. The kind of place where someone cooked
