The pediatric ward felt different from the rest of St. Meridian—less metallic, less haunted by the sterile chill that clung to most clinical spaces. Even at this hour, soft lights glowed along the walls, casting a muted warmth over the floor tiles. It didn’t erase the tension or the grief that sometimes passed through these halls, but it softened the sharp edges.

Adrian followed Elara through the double doors, the faint squeak of her sneakers marking their pace. He wasn’t sure when he had fallen half a step behind her—not quite hiding, not quite slowing, just… letting her go first.

The teenager from earlier lay in a small room near the end of the corridor. A nurse stepped out as they approached.

“Pressure’s holding,” she said after recognizing Elara. “He’s awake enough to complain.”

“That’s usually a good sign,” Elara replied, and the nurse exhaled in agreement before walking on.

Adrian stopped just outside the doorway. Elara stepped in alone first, checking monitors, assessing quietly. Her silhouette moved with practiced ease: one hand on the rail, one hand adjusting a drip line, her posture neither hurried nor tense. It was the kind of steadiness he recognized instinctively—the steadiness of someone who had learned to reorder chaos until it resembled something livable.

Only after a moment did she turn slightly. “You can come in, you know.”

He crossed the threshold.

The patient—sixteen, maybe seventeen—glanced up briefly, eyes still cloudy from meds. “Hey,” he muttered.

“Hey,” Elara echoed, tone soft but not patronizing. “Pain?”

“Four,” the teen said, though his face said six.

Adrian checked the monitor out of habit. Vitals stable. He kept his assessment silent; she had it under control. She always did.

Elara adjusted the blanket and gave the teen a nod. “Get some rest. We’ll check on you again in an hour.”

When they stepped back into the hallway, Adrian let out a breath he didn’t realize had lingered in his chest.

“You didn’t have to come,” Elara said.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have one, but because he wasn’t ready to admit it out loud.

They walked slowly toward the elevators, the quiet stretching in that comfortable, careful way they had built over the past hours. Halfway down the corridor, Adrian paused, one hand bracing briefly on the wall—not out of weakness, but out of a sudden, surprising tremor beneath his ribs.

Elara caught the movement. She didn’t touch him, but she angled her body toward his, quietly making herself a point of orientation.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just—my heart jumped.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “Palpitations?”

“It’s nothing unusual.”

“For you,” she said. “Maybe not for everyone else.”

He didn’t respond.

The tremor passed as quickly as it came, leaving behind a faint echo of adrenaline in his fingertips. His chest felt too aware of itself—a strange, unhelpful clarity, like his own heartbeat had become a faulty metronome inside his ribs.

“Your body’s still in emergency mode,” Elara said, walking beside him again. “It’ll stop. Eventually.”

“When?”

“When it realizes you’re safe.”

“That may take a while,” he murmured.

She didn’t smile, but something in her expression warmed. “Then we wait.”

They reached the elevator. The doors slid open to an empty car, the lights reflecting off steel and shadow. He hesitated for the briefest second before stepping inside.

Elara joined him. The doors closed with a soft thud.

Adrian leaned lightly against the back rail. The elevator hummed, descending with a steady, indifferent rhythm. His pulse, though—not so steady.

The silence grew thicker until Elara spoke, her voice low.

“Earlier,” she said, “in the locker corridor—when that sound went off—you asked if I was okay.”

He looked at her.

She didn’t look away. “I wasn’t.”

He didn’t realize how much that admission would land—the way it reached a place he rarely let anything reach.

“What was it?” he asked softly.

“A memory. Not a specific one. Just… a kind of reminder.” She swallowed once, barely noticeable. “There are noises your body learns to prepare for. Even when you aren’t there anymore.”

He understood. More deeply than he expected to.

The elevator continued its descent, unhurried.

“Elara.”

She lifted her gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Not if it feels like opening something you can’t close again.”

Her chest rose on a breath she held for a moment too long. “That’s the thing,” she whispered. “Some of it never closed.”

Something shifted in him—not pity, not shock, but recognition. A mirror turned at a different angle.

Adrian straightened slightly. “If you ever want to stop holding it by yourself—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off, but not unkindly. “I know.”

It wasn’t refusal.  

It wasn’t permission.  

It was an acknowledgment. A step. A door she wasn’t locking.

The elevator chimed, doors sliding open into a dimmed corridor near the physician lounge.

Neither moved at first.

Then Elara stepped out, and he followed.

The hallway was almost quiet enough to hear the soft reverb of their footsteps. Adrian’s chest felt different now—not lighter, not healed, but… aligned. As if something in him had tilted a few degrees toward a place he hadn’t realized he’d been avoiding.

“You should try to sleep,” she said as they neared the lounge. “Even an hour.”

“You should too.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He almost said he didn’t know how. But she already knew that.

Instead, he said, “I’ll try.”

She nodded, accepting the honesty more than the promise. “Good. I’m on call. I’ll check in on you later.”

He should’ve argued. Told her she didn’t need to. Told her he’d manage.

But he didn’t.

Because he wasn’t sure any of those things were true.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

She turned to go, took two steps, then paused.

“Adrian.”

He looked up.

“You’re not alone tonight.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t meant to change him.  

But they settled into his chest like a second, steadier heartbeat.

She left.  

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t dread the quiet that followed.