Adrian headed back toward the ICU, though his steps weren’t as steady as he wished they were. The tremor had eased, but only the way a storm eases—pulling back just far enough to make someone believe they’re safe before the next wave hits. His body hadn’t settled, not really. The hospital lights buzzed overhead, casting pale reflections across the floor, pale enough that the corridor felt almost underwater.

He checked the clock on the wall as he walked. Two hours until the next set of labs. Four until morning rounds. Seven until the sun would rise over a city that rarely paused long enough to acknowledge it.

He pushed through the ICU doors and returned to room twelve. The patient lay as he had before—still, fragile, suspended between the deepest part of night and the uncertain promise of morning. Adrian checked the vitals again, read over the previous hour’s notations, and forced his mind into the familiar routine. Numbers were safer than thoughts. Machines were steadier than breath.

He rested a hand on the bed’s railing, just for a moment. The metal was colder than he expected.

“Hang on,” he murmured softly. Not to be heard. Just to be said.

He updated the chart, then stepped out into the quiet hallway again. His shift still had hours left, but the adrenaline from the code had long since burned out, leaving the kind of exhaustion that sat in the bones rather than the muscles. He felt it behind his eyes, in the tight pull of his jaw, in the way his breaths kept arriving a half-second late.

At the nurses’ station, one of the night-shift nurses—Marissa—glanced up from her screen.

“You’re still on your feet,” she said, not quite a question.

“So are you.”

She huffed a tired laugh. “Difference is, I’m used to it.”

He didn’t argue. Marissa’s gaze lingered a little too long on his face, her brow pinching slightly.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You really should find a better line.” She took a sip of lukewarm coffee. “Break room’s empty if you need five minutes. I can watch your rooms.”

“I have work.”

“You always do.”

There was no bite in her voice. Just truth.

Adrian nodded once in thanks but didn’t move toward the break room. He wasn’t ready to sit. Sitting would allow too much space for everything he’d been holding back. Instead, he walked back to the stairwell and took a seat on the second step—high enough to stay out of the way, low enough that no one would go searching for him.

His elbows rested on his knees. His hands hung loosely between them. The tremor had subsided to something smaller, but not gone. Not gone enough.

He lowered his head, letting the dim stairwell lights cast soft shadows around him. In this quiet, he could almost hear the echo of the code again—the alarms, the frantic rustle of gloves, the crackling of the defibrillator pads. He could feel the weight of the hesitation that had lived in his hands. It wasn’t a mistake. But it was close enough to haunt him.

A door creaked open one floor below. He stayed still, listening. The footsteps paused, then resumed quietly, heading the other way. He let out a slow breath.

He didn’t expect the door above him to open a few minutes later.

“Adrian?”

Her voice slid into the stairwell, soft but steady. He didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to—he knew that tone. It wasn’t the sharpness she used when arguing with him. It wasn’t the clipped professionalism she used during rounds. It was the version of her voice that only showed itself when she wasn’t trying to defend anything.

He lifted his head.

Elara stood two steps above him. The low light made her look smaller, softer around the edges, though her posture remained straight. She had changed into a clean set of scrubs, her hair pulled back more neatly than before. A faint shadow lingered beneath her eyes, but she was steadier than he was. He didn’t need a monitor to tell him that.

“ICU called,” she said. “Labs updated on the board.”

“I saw.”

She waited a beat. “And?”

“And we’ll repeat them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “They’re borderline. Still stable.”

“Your definition of stable is skewed.”

“Comes with the job.”

“Doesn’t make it healthy.”

Silence stretched between them, long enough that she stepped down one stair, closing the space slightly—not enough to crowd him, but enough to make it clear she wasn’t leaving yet.

“You didn’t come back to the ER,” she said quietly.

“I had work.”

“You also had choices.”

He looked up at her fully now. “No. Not tonight.”

Elara studied him for a moment, and something in her expression softened—not pity, not sympathy, but recognition. She’d seen the exhaustion in him before. She’d seen the cracks, the ones he patched over with routine and precision.

“Move over,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

She stepped past him and sat on the stair beside him, leaving a thin space between them. Not touching. Not quite close. But present. Solid.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said. “Just don’t sit here alone like you’re about to fall through the floor.”

“I’m not—”

“Adrian.” Her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was careful. “You’re shaking.”

He looked down. He hadn’t noticed.

She rested her hands on her knees, not reaching for him this time. Just there. Her presence was steady enough to anchor the air around them.

“You did everything you could tonight,” she said.

“You weren’t there.”

“I’ve been there enough times to know what it looks like.”

His jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to push her back with logic and distance, but he couldn’t find the words. Not tonight.

She let the silence rest. Not heavy, not demanding—just rest.

Finally, she asked, “When was the last time you slept?”

He didn’t answer.

“That long?” she murmured.

He exhaled, the sound low, tired. “I can’t sleep tonight.”

“Then sit,” she said. “Just for a minute.”

He didn’t move. But he didn’t stand either.

A soft hum filled the stairwell as the ventilation system kicked on again. The air shifted around them, cool and steady.

Elara leaned back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. “You know,” she said softly, “there’s no medal for pretending you’re made of steel.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Then you’re bad at being human.”

He huffed something between a breath and a laugh. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

He turned his head slightly, enough to see her profile in the dim light. Her expression wasn’t pushing him, wasn’t judging him. It was simply there—quiet, open, patient.

He felt something in his chest loosen, just slightly. Enough to breathe.

The tremor in his hands eased.

Not gone.  

But eased.

For the first time that night, he let himself lean back against the wall beside her—not touching, but close enough that the space between them didn’t feel empty.

They stayed like that, breathing in the same quiet.

And for a fleeting moment, he didn’t feel like he was falling apart.