Tedd knew something was wrong the moment he opened his phone and saw Jaimie's unsent message.
Not a text.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡphDXVoRKfi
Not a call.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEZfi0v9wSe
Just a "typing..." bubble that blinked and disappeared.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfypmVY1GXn
Then nothing.
He waited the entire night.
No reply.
No emoji.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjr2SeJFWgD
No meme.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnfRMcgDgxf
Not even a late photo of Sam wrapped in a blanket.
It felt like a door had quietly closed.
He just didn't know why.
It wasn't until the next day—between rounds and paperwork, when Aimee mentioned she saw someone "familiar" near the staff garden—that the knot in his chest tightened.
"She didn't say hi though," Aimee added, sipping iced coffee. "I thought maybe I imagined her."
Tedd's stomach dropped.
He excused himself without finishing his notes.
He found her later that day—on the rooftop parking of the condo, leaning against her car, arms crossed, eyes tired.
"Hey," he said carefully.
She didn't look at him.
"Hey."
The silence was immediate.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxbbLlVHYpb
Sharp.
He took a slow step forward.
"You were at the hospital."
Still, she said nothing.
"I didn't know... I would've—"
"It's fine," Jaimie cut in, her voice calm in the most dangerous way. "You looked... busy."
Tedd winced. "If you saw Aimee—"
"I saw enough."
Her eyes finally met his.
And they were colder than he remembered.
"You smiled," she said. "You let her touch you. It was easy for you."
He stepped closer. "She's just a co-worker, Jaimie. That's all it is. She's always flirty—she's like that with everyone—"
"But you smiled back."
Tedd swallowed hard. "I was being polite."
"Polite," she repeated flatly.
"Nothing's going on."
"But you didn't pull away," she said, her voice cracking just slightly. "And that's the part that hurt."
He closed the distance between them, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for her but didn't dare.
"I've only ever wanted you," he whispered.
"And still," she replied, "I end up feeling like I'm not enough."
Tedd's chest caved.
"Please," he said, "don't do this. Not again."
"I don't know what to believe anymore, Tedd. I trusted you once and you disappeared. Now I open myself again and see you smiling with someone else. You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't feel."
She turned to go, gripping the car handle.
"Jaimie—"
"I need space."
He froze.
"I need space to think, to breathe, to remember who I am when I'm not second-guessing myself around someone I once bled for."
The car door slammed softly.
And just like that, she drove off—again, with her heart half-open and bleeding.
Tedd stood in the empty rooftop, the wind sharp against his skin.
He wanted to chase her.
But more than that—
He wanted to be the kind of man she wouldn't need to doubt in the first place.
And that man?
Still had work to do.
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