Adrian didn’t intend to fall asleep.

He had only planned to sit for a moment in the physician lounge—just long enough to reset, to pull his body out of the autopilot pattern it had been stuck in since morning. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner and the faint blue glow of a vending machine humming in the background. He chose the chair farthest from the door, the one angled toward the window where the city lights smudged into the night.

He sat down. Closed his eyes—not to rest, but to block out the noise.

And when he opened them again, the clock had moved.

He blinked once, then again, trying to piece together the missing time. His neck hurt from the angle he’d slumped into, and a dull ache traced the line of his spine. He straightened slowly, the stiffness in his muscles telling him he’d been asleep longer than he should have been.

A soft footstep made him look up.

Elara stood in the doorway, a cup of something steaming in her hand—tea, probably, judging by the softer scent threading into the room.

“You fell asleep,” she said quietly.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s usually when people need it most.”

She stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind her. The lamp light caught the edges of her features, softening them without erasing the exhaustion. She set one cup on the small table near him.

“For you,” she said.

He hesitated. “You didn’t have to.”

“Adrian.” Her voice held that low, certain tone that made refusal pointless. “Just take it.”

He took the cup. The heat against his palms worked its way through the tension in his fingers, and he felt himself exhale before he realized he was doing it.

“How long was I out?” he asked.

“About forty minutes.”

He frowned. “You checked?”

“Twice.”

The admission landed quietly. Not heavy. Not light. Just real.

He nodded once, an unspoken thank-you.

She sat across from him, legs folded under her, posture relaxed in that deceptive way she used when she was paying very close attention.

“You look better,” she said.

He wasn’t sure that was true, but he didn’t argue. “Rough day.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Her tone wasn’t teasing; it was something closer to recognition. She sipped her tea, eyes drifting briefly toward the window before returning to him.

“What woke you?” she asked.

He considered. “Nothing. Or everything.”

“Dreams?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I think my body isn’t used to stopping long enough to recover.”

She nodded. “That happens when you spend years bracing.”

The truth of that sat between them, uncomplicated and bare.

He took a careful sip of the tea. It wasn’t good, but it was warm.

“You should get some rest,” he said.

“I will.” She leaned against the arm of the couch. “Just not yet.”

“Why not?”

She held his gaze for a moment. “Because you’re still somewhere half-between.”

“Half-between what?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup once, a small circular movement.

“Between holding yourself together,” she said softly, “and letting yourself be human.”

He swallowed. The words were too close to something he hadn’t named.

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

“No,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re functional. It’s not the same.”

He didn’t dispute it.

The room shifted into another quiet—slower, steadier, almost warm. Outside, a siren wailed distantly across the city, but inside the lounge, the sound felt far away, like it belonged to a world they weren’t currently required to manage.

After a long moment, Elara set her cup down. “Can I ask you something?”

He braced. “Depends.”

“When was the last time you slept without waking up checking for alarms?”

He let out a slow breath. “I don’t know.”

“Adrian.”

“I really don’t.”

She didn’t push. The softness in her expression wasn’t pity—it was understanding, carved from her own late-night awakenings and body-level memories.

“You’re allowed to rest,” she said.

“I don’t always know how.”

“Then we figure it out.”

The sentence struck him in a place deeper than comfort allowed. He looked down at the cup in his hands, staring at the faint ripple on the surface.

“Elara.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

Her answer was immediate. Certain.

And then she added, “But I’m here.”

His breath hitched—not enough to be visible, but he felt the shift anyway.

A soft vibration broke the moment. Her pager. She glanced at it, sighed quietly.

“Peds wants an update,” she said. “I should go. Are you staying here?”

“For a little bit.”

She nodded. Then—after a second of hesitation—she reached out and touched the edge of his sleeve. Light. Barely there. A gesture so brief anyone else would have missed it.

“I’ll come back,” she said.

He didn’t ask why.  

He didn’t tell her she didn’t need to.  

He didn’t step away.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

She slipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.

Adrian leaned back in the chair, feeling the ghost of her touch on his sleeve—the smallest contact, but somehow enough to keep the quiet around him from feeling like isolation.

The world outside continued spinning with its sirens and lights.

Inside this dim room, for the first time in a long while, he let himself breathe without bracing.