The lounge door stayed unlocked.

Adrian didn’t move from the couch—not out of exhaustion this time, but because the stillness felt deliberate, as if interrupting it would break some fragile alignment he wasn’t ready to let go of. The blanket remained around his legs, the cooling tea untouched on the table, the room steady in its dim quiet.

He listened.

Not anxiously, not braced—just listening.

A soft rustle outside the door, voices passing, then fading. A cart squeaking. Someone laughing tiredly. The muffled ring of a station phone. All human, all ordinary, all part of the rhythm he was finally allowing himself to fall in step with.

His breath stayed even.

A small miracle, almost.

He leaned his head back, eyes drifting shut—not in sleep, but in the rare peace of knowing someone would return. The thought didn’t frighten him. It didn’t tighten his chest or drag his pulse upward.

It settled.

The door clicked.

Not loudly.  

Not dramatically.

He opened his eyes as Elara stepped in, one hand still on the handle as if she’d entered softly on purpose.

“You’re here,” she said.

It wasn’t surprise.  

It wasn’t relief.  

It was something steadier—the quiet acknowledgment of a choice he’d made.

“You told me not to leave,” he replied.

“And you listened.”  

Her voice softened. “That’s new.”

She set her chart on the counter again, a faint line between her brows revealing she hadn’t had a true break in hours. Adrian straightened slightly.

“How was it?”

“Consult went long. Family needed time.” She pulled in a slow breath. “But it’s handled.”

She moved closer, not sitting yet, hands sliding into the pockets of her scrubs. “How are you?”

“I’m here,” he said.

Her eyes warmed. “I can see that.”

A moment of silence—not heavy, but almost warm—passed between them before she finally took her seat beside him again.

“You look less tense,” she noted.

“I feel less tense.”

“Good.”

He studied her more closely now—the fatigue in her posture, the slight tightness around her eyes. “You haven’t rested.”

“Not really.”

“You should,” he said.

“I will.”

“That’s what you told me earlier.”

“And you listened eventually.”

He huffed a quiet exhale. “I’m still not used to people coming back.”

“I know.”  

Her voice lowered. “But I’m still here.”

He didn’t look away.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to.

A beat passed. Then another.

Elara leaned back in the chair, tilting her head just enough to really study him. “What’s going through your mind right now?”

He didn’t lie.  

He didn’t hide.

“I’m trying to remember the last time I let myself stop,” he said.

“And?”

“I can’t.”

“Then this is the first time in a long time.”

His breath hitched—barely, but hers caught the shift.

“You keep noticing everything,” he murmured.

“I pay attention,” she repeated softly. “Especially when it’s you.”

Something inside him moved at that—deep, cautious, aching.

He lowered his gaze. “That’s… dangerous.”

“For who?”

“Me.”  

Then quieter: “Maybe you.”

She didn’t flinch. “Adrian, caring isn’t a threat.”

“It feels like one.”

“I know.”  

A pause.  

“But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Her voice wasn’t coaxing. It wasn’t demanding. It was simple truth.

He let the words find a place inside him.

Outside, an elevator dinged. A distant cough echoed down the hall. A pager went off somewhere in the ER wing. Hospital noise continued, steady and indifferent.

But inside the lounge, something shifted—subtle, quiet, a recalibration of air between two people who weren’t standing on opposite edges anymore.

Elara’s tone dropped to something lower, something he hadn’t heard often. “Adrian.”

He looked up.

“When you woke up a while ago… you looked calm.”

“That surprised you?” he asked.

“No.”  

Her eyes held his. “It meant something.”

He swallowed. “What?”

“That you felt safe enough to rest.”

The words hit him like a soft impact to the sternum—enough to make him inhale sharply.

“Elara…”

She waited.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

“You’re doing it.”

“It feels like I’m going to mess it up.”

“You will.”  

Her expression didn’t change. “And I won’t walk away because of that.”

Something inside him—something long-worn, long-walled—gave a slow, steady shift.

She leaned her elbows on her knees, closing the distance just by a breath. Not touching, but present in a way he couldn’t misinterpret.

“Tonight,” she said, “you stayed.  

You asked me to stay.  

You let your brother see you.  

You let me see you.”  

Her voice gentled even more.  

“That’s a beginning. Not a mistake.”

He didn’t trust his voice enough to answer.

So he nodded.

Once.  

Slow.

“Elara,” he said finally, “I don’t want this to be temporary.”

Her breath caught—tiny, but real.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said.

A pager buzzed somewhere deep in the hospital. Not hers this time. Not urgent. Just life continuing around them.

Adrian exhaled, steady and surprisingly sure.

“What now?” he asked quietly.

She blinked, almost smiling. “Now you lie down again.”

“That’s your solution for everything.”

“It works,” she said. “And you still look tired.”

He didn’t deny it.

As he eased back onto the couch, she reached for the blanket—not hovering, not hesitant, simply helping. He let her.

When he settled, she remained beside him, one leg folded under her, posture relaxed but attentive.

The room dimmed further as the hallway lights powered down for late-night mode.

“Elara,” he murmured, half drifting.

“Mm?”

“Don’t go far.”

Her answer was immediate.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He closed his eyes.

She stayed.

And the first step forward—quiet, unseen, unannounced—took shape in the space between their breaths.