Ten minutes felt longer than they should have.

Adrian remained on the couch, the blanket still pooled around his lap, the tea cooling between his hands. The lounge was unchanged—quiet, dim, contained—but the room didn’t feel sealed anymore. Something in it had shifted, loosened, opened, as if Elara’s presence had altered the air enough that even her absence didn’t erase it.

He wasn’t bracing for the quiet.

He was… waiting.

A strange feeling. Unfamiliar. Not unwelcome.

Outside the door, footsteps passed every now and then—steady, unhurried, part of the hospital’s nighttime rhythm. He couldn’t tell which ones belonged to her. He didn’t need to. His body no longer reacted like it had to track every sound to decide whether it was safe.

He leaned back, letting the couch support his shoulders. His eyes drifted shut—not to sleep, but to rest in the simple fact that someone would come back for him.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Not urgent. Not hesitant.

He opened his eyes.

“Come in.”

The door pushed open a few inches, and Elara slipped inside, the chart from her consult tucked under one arm. Her hair had come loose on one side, falling slightly over her cheek. She looked tired but steady—an exhaustion that had purpose rather than collapse.

“You stayed,” she said quietly.

“You asked me to.”

Her eyes softened—not with surprise, but with something closer to relief. She stepped deeper into the room, letting the door close behind her.

“How was the consult?” he asked.

“Messy,” she said. “Resident missed half the details, nurse caught them all, patient was confused, family was panicking. So, normal.”

Adrian gave a slow nod. “You fixed it.”

“I managed it.”

She set the chart on the counter and crossed the room, stopping near the chair beside him. She didn’t sit yet—just stood, studying him like she was checking for residual tremors the way she’d check a monitor for arrhythmias.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

He took a moment to answer. “Level.”

“That’s new.”

“It is.”

She finally sat down, resting her arms on her knees, leaning slightly toward him. “Anything hurting?”

“No.”

“Breathing okay?”

“Yes.”

She watched his chest rise and fall once, as if confirming the answer herself. Then—

“Mind quiet?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped to his hands, then lifted again.

“Quiet enough,” he said. “And that’s… rare.”

“Good rare?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled, an unguarded breath. “Okay.”

They didn’t speak for a while. The silence had weight, but a soft kind—like a blanket, not a wall. Adrian found himself sinking into it without the urge to fill it or escape it.

When Elara finally spoke again, her voice was softer.

“I didn’t expect Daniel to come.”

“I didn’t either.”

“He cares about you.”

“I know.”

“You let him see it tonight.”

Adrian blinked. “See what?”

“That you needed someone.”

The words struck something deep in him—small, sharp, true.

“I didn’t plan that,” he murmured.

“I know.”  

She paused. “That’s why it mattered.”

He didn’t look away this time. She held his gaze, steady, grounded, unafraid of the parts of him he still struggled to acknowledge.

“Elara…”

She tilted her head slightly. “Yeah?”

“I’m still not good at this.”

“I never asked you to be good at it.”

“I just—” He stopped, searching for words that didn’t exist in straightforward sentences. “Letting people in… it feels like walking into a room without knowing where the exits are.”

“I get that,” she said. “More than you think.”

He studied her for a long second. She wasn’t saying it lightly. She wasn’t saying it to mirror him. She was telling the truth.

“What do you do?” he asked quietly.

“When you can’t see the exits.”

Elara drew a slow breath.  

“Stay near the door,” she said. “And choose the people who won’t close it behind you.”

Something shifted at the center of him—not breaking, not burning, but rearranging. The way truth sometimes rearranged you.

He realized then: she wasn’t a door he needed to guard.

She was someone who kept it open.

A weight moved in his chest—small, deliberate. He let his head fall back against the couch, eyes half-closing, the kind of tired that finally didn’t feel dangerous.

Her voice came gently. “You can lie down again if you want.”

“I’m awake.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He considered that.  

He didn’t have an answer.

A moment later, her phone buzzed—not her pager this time, but a text. She glanced at it, expression tightening in a way that wasn’t fear but something sharper.

“What is it?” Adrian asked.

“Nothing urgent.”  

A pause.  

“But I should check.”

She hesitated before standing, as if recalculating something internally.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

She reached the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. She didn’t turn around fully—just enough for her voice to reach him clearly.

“Adrian.”

He looked up.

“Leave the door unlocked.”

His breath caught—not visibly, but enough for him to feel it.

“I will,” he said.

She slipped out.

The door clicked softly behind her—  

not closing him in,  

not shutting her out,  

but staying open in the only way that mattered.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t check for the exit.

He stayed.