The Result

**SAMPLE ANALYSIS: NEGATIVE.**

**VIRAL LOAD: DETECTED - INERT.**

**THREAT LEVEL: 0.**

Eamon stared at the screen. "Inert," he breathed. "The sample... it must have denatured. It was an old batch. It wasn't active."

"Negative?" Lucy shrieked. "Does that mean negative?"

"It means I'm clean," Eamon said, the relief hitting him so hard he almost passed out. "I'm safe."

The overhead red lights turned off. The normal white fluorescents flickered back on.

*“Lockdown lifted,”* the computer announced. *“Disengaging seal.”*

The heavy hiss of the pneumatic lock released.

The glass door slid open.

Eamon barely had time to stand up before a pink blur collided with him.

Lucy didn't care about the chemical foam. She didn't care about the blood on the floor. She slammed into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his soaked scrubs.

"You're okay," she sobbed. "You're okay."

Eamon hesitated for a fraction of a second—his brain screaming about cross-contamination and chemical residue—before he wrapped his good arm around her waist and held her tight.

"I'm okay," he whispered into her hair. She smelled like sugar and antiseptic. "I'm okay."

She pulled back, looking up at him. Her face was a mess, her eyes swollen, her nose red. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," she ordered, poking him in the chest.

"I promise," Eamon said. "No more heroics."

"And next time," Lucy sniffed, "just eat the cupcake. Don't catch the virus."

"Noted."

She stood on her tiptoes. Eamon leaned down.

She kissed him. It was salty from her tears and tasted faintly of the chemicals burning the air, but it was electric. It defied all logic.

When they broke apart, Eamon looked down at her.

"I have to go to Occupational Health," he said, his scientist brain rebooting. "I need stitches. And a secondary blood panel."

"I'm coming with you," Lucy said, linking her arm through his. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

They walked out of the lab, leaving the shattered glass and the warning signs behind.

"So," Eamon said, adjusting his glasses with his free hand as they walked down the hallway. "Based on the current data... what are the odds of that date happening once I'm discharged?"

Lucy squeezed his arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

"One hundred percent, Dr. Grey," she said. "Statistically significant."

Eamon smiled. He liked those odds.