Adrian didn’t remember standing up. One moment he was sitting on the cold stair beside her, the quiet settling in a way that didn’t feel dangerous anymore, and the next he was on his feet, the weight of the shift pulling him forward again. The tremor in his hands had quieted to the edge of awareness—still there, still wrong, but dulled by exhaustion and the fragile calm that Elara’s presence had left behind.

She rose a second after he did, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You going back up?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded like she expected that answer. She probably had. “I’ll check on the bay. Page me if you need anything.”

He almost told her he wouldn’t.  

He always didn’t.  

But something in her expression stopped him.

“I will,” he said instead.

It wasn’t a promise. But it wasn’t a lie either.

Elara didn’t push, didn’t search his face for more. She simply gave a small nod—approval, or acknowledgment, or something in between—and headed down the stairs toward the ER. Her footsteps echoed lightly, fading into the distance until the stairwell felt too still again.

Adrian stayed where he was for a few breaths.  

Just long enough to gather himself.  

Just long enough to make sure he was steady enough to walk back into the light.

When he stepped into the ICU hallway again, the brightness stung his eyes. He blinked until the hallway sharpened into focus. A nurse handed him an updated vitals sheet, and he scanned the numbers automatically, his mind clicking back into the rhythm it knew best.

“He’s holding,” she said.

“Good.”

“Dr. Rana wants to review the case later.”

“Of course she does.”

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look—one of the small mercies night shift sometimes offered—and returned to her station.

Adrian stood outside room twelve, hand resting lightly on the doorframe. The boy was unchanged, still suspended in the quiet pulse of machines. The monitors glowed softly against the dim room, the green lines rising and falling with a stubborn steadiness.

He stepped inside.

“Still here,” he murmured, as if the patient could hear him. “Good.”

He adjusted the blanket. Checked the IV sites. Straightened the pulse ox clip. These were small tasks, almost unnecessary, but they kept his hands busy. Kept his thoughts from circling too tightly around the hesitation in the OR, or the weight he had carried since.

The hours slipped by in a blur of checks, charting, and small decisions. Nurses rotated. The hallway changed faces. The sky outside shifted—from black to deep blue to a tired shade of gray. Morning approached quietly, brushing the edges of the windows but not quite breaking through.

When Adrian finally stepped away from the ICU, his body felt heavier but steadier. He walked down the corridor toward the vending machines again, more from habit than need.

He didn’t expect to see her there.

Elara stood with her shoulder against the wall, a paper cup of something steaming in her hands. Her scrubs were a little wrinkled, her expression softened by the fatigue that came with too many hours awake. She looked up when he approached, her gaze settling on him in a way that felt… grounding.

“Morning,” she said.

He checked the clock.  

Technically, it was.

“You’ve been up all night,” he said.

“So have you.”

He exhaled, a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

She held out the cup. “Coffee. Or something pretending to be.”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want it—he could feel the warmth from where he stood—but because taking things from people wasn’t something he was good at.

She nudged the cup closer. “Don’t overthink it.”

He took it. His fingers brushed hers briefly, and for a second he felt the steadiness she carried like a quiet current.

“Thanks,” he said, the word low but genuine.

“Don’t thank me until you taste it.”

He took a sip. It was terrible.  

But warm.  

And something inside him eased despite the bitterness.

Elara smirked. “Told you.”

He shook his head. “This should be illegal.”

“File a report.”

“I just might.”

A brief silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, just real.

Then Elara’s gaze softened. “You going home after rounds?”

“I should.”

“But you won’t.”

He didn’t answer.

She sighed—not exasperated, not angry, just… knowing. “Try,” she said. “For once.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll see.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

A voice called her name from down the hallway. She turned, lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then glanced back at him.

“Page me if he changes,” she said.

“I will.”

This time, he meant it.

She walked away, her pace steady, her presence leaving a quiet behind that didn’t feel empty.

Adrian leaned against the vending machine, letting the warmth of the paper cup seep into his palms. He took another sip. Still terrible. Still grounding.

Morning finally broke across the hospital’s windows, washing the corridor in soft gray light.

He wasn’t fine.  

He wasn’t steady.  

But for the first time since the code—

He wasn’t falling apart either.