Adrian woke to the muted gray of late morning, the kind that filtered through blinds without asking permission. His body felt heavy in a way sleep never truly fixed—weight settled into his limbs like he’d spent the night holding something instead of resting. He pushed himself upright, elbows on his knees, palms dragging down his face until the world steadied into focus. The apartment was cold again. He didn’t remember turning the heater off, but he must have; efficiency had a way of disguising itself as instinct.

He checked his phone before he could talk himself out of it. No new messages. Daniel’s text from last night stayed unread, a quiet responsibility he wasn’t ready to carry. And Elara’s messages—two lines that felt unreasonably present—remained pinned at the top, though he’d done nothing so deliberate as pin them. He set the phone aside, screen-down, as if the direction mattered.

He showered quickly, dressed in clean scrubs he wouldn’t need until later, then stood by the kitchen counter with a mug of lukewarm water because coffee tasted like the hospital and he wanted something else for a minute. He didn’t know what.

By the time he stepped outside, the air bit at his skin with the sharpness of a colder day than forecasted. Ardenvale’s streets were livelier now—delivery trucks rumbling, a cyclist weaving through traffic, two teenagers arguing over headphones. Normal life, indifferent and relentless. Adrian moved through it with the quiet precision of someone who knew where he had to be but not why it felt heavier today.

St. Meridian’s entrance looked the same as always: sliding glass doors, faded directory sign, the faint metallic smell of sterilized surfaces. But the moment he walked in, something in him clicked into place, the practiced shift into alertness. Home wasn’t the word for it. But familiarity had its own gravity.

He checked in at the surgical floor, reviewed the night logs, scanned labs, adjusted orders. The motions grounded him. Until they didn’t.

Because she was there.

He noticed Elara before he meant to—standing near the nurses’ station, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a ring of tiredness under her eyes that she tried to hide behind a smirk she wasn’t actually wearing today. She was talking to one of the senior nurses, her posture straight but her shoulders carrying something tight, something he recognized too easily.

Her gaze lifted. Found him.

For a split second, neither moved.

Then Elara offered a nod, small but enough to shift the room’s air. He returned it—technically just acknowledgment—but it landed heavier than that.

She walked over, steps deliberate, hands in her pockets like she needed them contained.

“You came back,” she said quietly.

“Had to,” he answered. Professional. Neutral. Almost steady.

She glanced at his face a moment too long. “Sleep?”

“Some.”

“That the ‘yes but barely’ kind, or the ‘don’t ask’ kind?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Does it matter?”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t say the thing she clearly wanted to. Instead: “Morning’s a mess. Multi-car collision on Route 12. Trauma bay’s filling up.”

“Anyone paging CT?”

“Already on it.”

She started walking toward the elevator, and he matched her pace without thinking. Their strides aligned naturally—too naturally, as if the hospital had trained their bodies to move beside each other without discussion.

Inside the elevator, the quiet grew dense. Too small a space. Too easy to notice the subtle tiredness in her breathing, the barely-there tremor in her hand before she hid it in her pocket.

“You okay?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Her head tilted, faint surprise flickering across her face. “That’s my line.”

“You asked last night.”

“I did,” she said. “You didn’t answer half of it.”

Adrian kept his gaze on the elevator doors. “I answered enough.”

“For you,” she said. “Not for someone who actually wanted to know.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Not accusatory—just honest. And that honesty scraped against something in him he kept under lock.

The elevator dinged. They stepped out.

Chaos met them immediately—nurses rushing, stretchers wheeling in, monitors beeping with relentless urgency. A trauma resident called Elara’s name; another waved Adrian over with a chart already half open. They split without discussion, pulled apart by necessity.

Hours blurred.

A torn aorta. A blunt cardiac injury. A teenager with a chest wound and a terrified father. Orders given, sutures placed, clamps held steady. Blood pressure crashing then returning, barely. Every case stacked over the other like someone building a tower out of moments he didn’t have time to process.

At some point, Elara appeared beside him again—her gloves stained, a new bruise blooming on her forearm, hair tied back too roughly.

“You need a break,” she murmured.

“So do you.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t.”

He glanced at her, and something about her posture—rigid, held together by force—made his pulse shift. “How long have you been running?”

“Since sunrise.”

“That’s six hours.”

“Better than your twenty-four.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

A nurse handed Adrian a new set of scans. He bent over the light board, tracing the shadow along the aortic arch, mind already calculating the sequence he needed to prepare for. Elara stepped closer, close enough that he felt her presence rather than saw it.

“You’re breathing too fast,” she said under her breath.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that right before you stop being fine.”

He straightened. “Elara—”

“Not trying to push.” She paused, eyes searching his face. “Just… don’t disappear into the noise again.”

Something lodged in his chest at that. A warning. A plea. A memory of her sitting beside him in the stairwell, letting him come apart without comment.

He wanted to respond. But the intercom chimed overhead:  

**Trauma team to Bay 3. Immediate.**

Elara inhaled sharply. “That’s me.”

“I’ll check on the OR,” he said.

She hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat, something unsaid hovering like a half-step between them.

“Adrian,” she said softly.

He turned.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and disappeared down the hall, swallowed by the swarm of movement and voices.

Adrian stood there, the scans still in his hand, the weight she’d left in the air settling over him like something familiar—and something he wasn’t sure he knew how to set down.

He exhaled, slow and controlled, then moved toward the OR. One step. Then another.

The distance between their steps felt smaller than it had been yesterday.

But still—too wide to name.