Adrian didn’t remember walking back to his office. One moment he was stepping out of the elevator, the next he was standing in the doorway, the familiar stale air greeting him like a habit he kept forgetting he had. The blinds were half-closed, letting in thin slats of afternoon light that cut across the desk in uneven bars. His jacket was still draped over the visitor’s chair from the night before—a reminder of how little time he spent here except to catch his breath between storms.

He closed the door behind him, not a slam, not even a click—just the muted thud of someone who needed a barrier without admitting it.

He sat.

For a few seconds he simply let his spine settle against the chair, feeling every point of contact like rediscovering a body he’d left somewhere else. His hands hovered over the desk, then dropped into his lap. The quiet wasn’t comforting. But it didn’t demand anything from him, and that was enough.

His phone buzzed.

He didn’t move at first. Then he reached for it, expecting a page, a consult, a lab result.

It was Daniel.

*Saw the news about Route 12. If you’re swamped, just texting to check you’re alive.*

Adrian rested his thumb over the screen, the pressure light, as if too much force might crack something fragile beneath it. He could reply. He should reply. But the words didn’t come. Not because he didn’t care. Because caring made the edges of everything too sharp.

A knock interrupted his stillness.

He straightened. “Come in.”

Elara slipped inside without waiting for permission, though she closed the door behind her with the same deliberate care he had earlier. She wasn’t in a rush now. Her gloves were off. Scrubs faintly stained. A loose strand of hair clung to her cheek before she brushed it back behind her ear.

“I figured you’d be hiding here,” she said quietly.

“I’m not hiding.”

“Okay,” she said, leaning against the desk. “You’re… selectively present.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. “Is that a diagnosis?”

“A working one.”

Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but taut, like a thin line stretched just enough to feel.

Her gaze drifted to his hands. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.” He looked down. He was.

“Adrian.” She didn’t move closer, but her voice did. Soft enough to cut deeper.

“It’s adrenaline,” he said. “It happens when things slow down.”

“That’s not all it is.”

He swallowed. “I’m aware.”

She studied him, and he hated how easily she read what he didn’t say. He turned slightly, creating space that wasn’t really space.

“You handled half my cases,” she said. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or worry about how little self-preservation you have.”

“I was needed.”

“That’s not the same as being okay.”

He exhaled, slow, measured. “Why are you here, Elara?”

Her eyes flicked up. “Because you weren’t out there.”

He blinked once, twice, as if her words had shifted the gravity in the room. She pushed off the desk, taking a single step closer—not enough to invade, but enough that he felt the change in temperature.

“Adrian,” she said softly, “you disappear when you’re not operating. It’s like you don’t know what to do with yourself unless you're fixing something.”

“Maybe that’s true,” he admitted, the words sanded down to something honest and raw.

She hesitated. Then: “You can talk to me, you know.”

He almost laughed. A quiet, breathless sound. “I don’t do that.”

“I know.”

“And you still ask?”

“Yes.”

Her certainty hit him harder than the day’s emergencies. It scared him more too.

Elara drew a breath. Her voice dropped lower. “When you walked into trauma earlier… I could breathe better. I didn’t realize how much I was holding until you showed up.”

He looked at her sharply. Too sharply.

“That’s not—” He stopped, unable to finish the protest, because it wasn’t untrue. Not for him. Probably not for her.

She watched him with that unflinching steadiness he both admired and dreaded.

“I’m not saying you have to talk,” she murmured. “I’m saying you don’t have to go silent, either.”

He felt his pulse at the base of his throat. Steady in the OR. Unsteady now.

The air between them changed again, thinning, drawing them closer without either of them stepping forward. He wasn’t sure who breathed first or who looked away first. All he knew was the pull—quiet, wrong, inevitable.

His phone buzzed again. The small, vibrating sound cut straight through whatever fragile thread had formed.

He reached for it too quickly.

Daniel, again.

Elara’s eyes softened when she saw the name. “You should answer.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

He didn’t deny it.

She let out a faint, tired breath. “Your brother worries because he loves you, Adrian. That’s not something you need to fix.”

He pressed the phone against his knee, thumb brushing the edge. “Love makes things harder.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t fill the silence. She just looked at him—really looked—and he felt something inside him resist and give way at the same time.

The intercom crackled overhead. A page for cardiology. A reminder that the world outside his office hadn’t stopped.

Elara straightened. “I have to go.”

He nodded, but the motion felt heavy.

She reached the door, hand on the knob, then paused. “If you need something—anything—I’m around.”

He kept his gaze on the floor. “I don’t know what I’d ask for.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “Just don’t shut the door so hard I can’t knock.”

He closed his eyes for one slow second.

When he opened them, she was already slipping into the hallway.

The door shut softly behind her—not a goodbye, not a distance.

Just a promise that she would knock again.