Adrian didn’t wake abruptly.

It was slow—so slow that he wasn’t entirely sure when sleep ended and waking began. The room around him blurred at the edges, shaped first by sound rather than sight: the faint hum of the vending machine, the distant wheels of a cart rolling past, the soft rustle of someone adjusting in a nearby chair.

Someone.

His breath steadied before his eyes even opened.

When he finally blinked awake, the lounge remained dim, unchanged from when he’d drifted off. What had shifted was the subtle awareness of another presence. Elara sat in the chair next to the couch, her legs folded under her, one hand propped lightly against her cheek. She wasn’t asleep—just resting, head tilted toward him as though keeping half an eye on him even in stillness.

She noticed the shift in his breathing before he spoke.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Adrian exhaled. “How long…?”

“A little over an hour.”

He frowned, instinctively straightening; the blanket slipped slightly, and she caught the corner before it fell.

“You needed it,” she added.

He didn’t argue, not this time.

His body felt heavy but not weighed down—more like it had finally stopped bracing. For the first time in longer than he could remember, waking didn’t come with immediate pressure behind his ribs.

Elara watched him closely. “Better?”

“I don’t know yet,” he answered honestly. “But… different.”

“Different can be good.”

He sat up more fully, rubbing at the back of his neck. The movement was slow, careful. Elara stood—not abruptly, more like she was adjusting to his change in position. She stepped toward the small counter where the hot water dispenser sat, refilling the kettle with practiced ease.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. She poured water into a cup, added a tea bag, then paused.

“You want something less terrible?” she offered. “I can steal actual coffee from the ICU lounge.”

“No,” he said. “This is fine.”

She raised a brow. “You hate this tea.”

“I hate everything in that machine,” he said. “This one’s tolerable.”

“That’s the closest thing to praise I’ve heard you give all day.”

He didn’t smile, but the tension at the corners of his mouth eased.

When she handed him the cup, their fingers didn’t touch—but the warmth of the drink traveled quickly through his palms, grounding him more than he expected.

Elara leaned back against the counter, studying him. “How’s your chest?”

“Quiet,” he said.  

Then added, “For now.”

“That’s enough.”

He looked down at the ripples on the surface of the tea. “I don’t remember the last time it felt this… settled.”

“Your body finally realized it wasn’t in danger,” she said. “Sometimes it needs proof.”

“And that was the nap?”

“That was you letting yourself stop fighting for a minute.”

He absorbed that without deflecting.

Outside the lounge, the hospital continued its subdued nighttime rhythm. But here—inside these four small walls—the world felt momentarily paused, as if someone had turned down the volume for his sake.

A knock sounded at the door—not urgent, just a quick check. Elara went to open it.

A nurse poked her head in. “Sorry—just updating Dr. Vale. The kid in peds is holding steady. No new concerns.”

Elara nodded. “Good. I’ll check in soon.”

The nurse left.

Adrian watched her close the door again, watched the small shift in her shoulders when she returned to the quiet.

“You should get back,” he said.

“In a bit.”

“Don’t you have a shift?”

“I’m still on it.”

“And you’re here.”

She met his gaze. “Yes.”

He let out a low breath, one he didn’t entirely control. “Elara—”

“You don’t need to say anything,” she cut in, but gently.

“But I should.”

“If it’s going to make you spiral, then later.”

He blinked, surprised by the accuracy.

She moved back to the chair beside him, resting her arms on the backrest, facing him. “What were you going to say?”

He stared at the floor for a beat, then the wall, then—finally—her.

“I’m not used to people staying.”

A softness flickered across her expression—one that didn’t collapse into pity, one that understood exactly what he meant.

“I know,” she said. “That’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is.”

“It isn’t.”

The silence that followed didn’t sting. It rested between them, open, unhurried.

Adrian lifted a hand, pressing his fingers briefly to his sternum—checking, grounding. “I… didn’t mind waking up and seeing you here.”

Her breath caught—subtle, but real. “Good,” she said quietly. “Then it wasn’t a mistake.”

He looked down at the blanket still pooled around his lap. “You stayed the whole time?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

The question wasn’t defensive. It was something closer to bewildered.

“Because you asked me to,” she said simply. “And because you shouldn’t have had to wake up alone tonight.”

He didn’t have an immediate response. The words hit somewhere deep, below bone, where too much had been held for too long.

A sudden buzz interrupted the moment—her pager again. She glanced at it, brow tightening.

“Trauma?” Adrian asked.

“No, just consults,” she replied, already calculating. “I need ten minutes.”

She grabbed her chart from the table.

Before she left, she turned to him one last time.

“Adrian.”

He looked up.

“Don’t leave the lounge yet.”

He frowned lightly. “Why?”

Her mouth curved—not a smile, but something close. “Because when I come back, I prefer knowing where to find you.”

He didn’t promise.  

He didn’t need to.

“Elara,” he murmured, voice low but steady, “I’ll be here.”

She held his gaze for one quiet second that felt almost like a touch.

Then she left.

And for the first time in years, the silence she left behind didn’t make him brace—  

it made him wait.