Page 99 of Savage Protector

“You look dead on your feet. Sit down. If you don’t fancy going out, I’ll order a pizza and get some groceries delivered.”

“No, I can?—”

“Sit!”

The command brooks no argument, and in any case, he’s right. I can barely stand, let alone trot off down to the off-licence on the corner.

I drag myself out of the kitchen and into our lounge where I sink onto the sofa.

“Feet up. Take a nap while I get shit organised.” Zayn has followed me in, and to press his point he crouches to remove my comfortable hospital shoes and lifts my feet onto the sofa. “It’ll take ten minutes,” he promises, his phone in his hand.

I nod, close my eyes, and promptly fall asleep.

I wake a while later, aroused by the aroma of cheese, tomato, and spiced chicken. My mouth waters even before I properly regain consciousness.

“Give me some of that. Now.” I struggle to sit.

Zayn thrusts a paper plate loaded with two slices of pizza and a pile of spicy potato wedges into my hand. “There you go, Doctor Mansour. Wrap yourself around that.”

“Not exactly healthy eating,” I observe as I stuff the handful of tangy deliciousness into my mouth. “Did you get cookie dough?”

“Is the Pope a Catholic?”

I glance up at him. “So I hear.”

He grins and settles next to me, his own plate heaped high. We munch in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“I never sorted a plumber,” I begin. “It’s been manic…”

Our shower has developed some sort of fault, it runs scalding hot the whole time. I desperately need a shower but can’t face the hassle of using the communal ones at the hospital. I’ll settle for a bath if I have to.

“Done,” he replies, setting down his empty pizza box. “I had a word with Beth, and she sent someone yesterday.”

Beth is married to Aaron, Ethan Savage’s brother, and she runs a plumbing business. Zayn is full of useful contacts.

“Is it fixed?” I can barely believe it. Such luxury.

“It is,” he assures me. “Fancy sharing?”

I nod happily. “Let me finish this first.” I grab a fourth slice of spicy chicken and onion.

“No rush.” He props his feet on the coffee table. “Hard shift?”

I consider the question around chews. “Not hard. Just long.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Junior doctor hours are brutal. I just finished a twenty-hour shift, having doubled up to cover a colleague with Covid. I’m due on again in less than twelve hours. It’s now three years since Zayn and I bought our own house, a modest two-up, two-down in the Edinburgh suburbs, and although I love the place, I’m lucky if I get home more than two or three times a week.

In fairness, Zayn’s hours are just as erratic. He gets called away at a moment’s notice and can be gone for days. Weeks, sometimes. Neither of us complains, we just value even more the brief times we can be together.

It won’t always be like this, but right now, while I’m completing my residency in Paediatric Intensive Care, it’s full-on.

“Baby Harry goes home tomorrow,” I murmur.

“Really? That’s great.” Zayn kisses my forehead. “Thanks to you.”

“It was a team effort,” I point out. “And he’s a little fighter.”

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