The hospital was quieter than usual that evening. The emergency wing lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the corridors as Dr. Evelyn Hart walked toward the break room. Her shift had technically ended an hour ago, but staying late had become a habit—one she used to justify avoiding her apartment's silence.
Inside the break room, she found an unexpected guest: Adrian Blake, leaning against the countertop, sipping from a paper cup of vending-machine coffee. He wore a hoodie over his cast and was flipping through a small hospital magazine.
"How did you get in here?" she asked, arms folding on instinct.
He looked up, offering a sheepish grin. "Security recognized me. I said I was here for a follow-up. Which is true. Sort of."
"You're not due for another two days."
"I couldn't sleep." He shrugged. "Didn't feel like being alone in the apartment tonight. Besides… this place has better coffee than I remembered."
She arched a brow and gestured to the paper cup. "That's objectively false."
He laughed, setting the cup aside. "Okay, you caught me. I was hoping to see you."
Evelyn hesitated. She knew she should shut this down. Boundaries were important—clinical, ethical, and personal. And yet, every time he looked at her with that quiet honesty, something in her softened.
"You shouldn't be here after hours," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"You're here after hours."
"I work here."
"Well that's true."
They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that teetered between awkward and intimate. She moved to the window and gazed down at the city. The skyline sparkled against the dark like it was trying to remind her there was more out there than routine, more than checklists and scheduled surgeries.
Adrian stepped beside her, just close enough for her to feel his presence but not close enough to intrude.
"I Googled you," he said suddenly.
She stiffened. "That's invasive."
"Maybe. But it's not like you ever talk about yourself." He paused. "I read about your residency. About your parents' accident."
Her body turned to ice.
He continued, his voice gentle. "You were twenty-two. They said you held your father's hand while he died."
Her eyes stayed fixed outside, unblinking. "You had no right."
"I know," he said, voice quieter. "But I wanted to understand you. Because I think… you understand me."
Silence again. This time deeper, heavier.
"I didn't tell anyone," he added. "Not the press. Not my therapist. I didn't even mean to bring it up tonight. It just… slipped out."
She turned slowly, meeting his eyes. "You think understanding trauma means you're allowed to unearth mine?"
"No," he said, stepping back. "But I think pain recognizes pain. And maybe… I thought you needed someone to see yours."
Her walls shuddered. Not collapsed. Not yet. But something within them trembled.
"I buried them both," she said at last, her voice a strained whisper. "My mother died instantly. My father didn't. He kept trying to say something, but there was blood in his throat. I didn't know how to help. I was still in med school."
Adrian didn't speak. Just listened.
"I thought being a doctor would mean I could save everyone," she continued. "Turns out, it means living with the ones you can't save."
She wasn't crying. But something in her face cracked wide open—an expression she hadn't worn in years. Not sorrow, exactly. Not anger. Just… human.
"You know," Adrian said after a pause, "I used to fake every smile. After my brother died, I thought if I acted happy enough, I'd start to believe it again. But I just got really good at pretending."
She looked at him, something between sympathy and recognition in her eyes.
"What changed?" she asked.
"You," he said simply.
She blinked. "What?"
"You didn't buy the act. Everyone else either babied me or believed me. But you looked right through it. And you didn't try to fix me. You just told me the truth." He smiled faintly. "I think I needed that more than I knew."
Evelyn turned back toward the window. "I don't know how to be… not this. The walls, the detachment. They keep me from falling apart."
Adrian stepped closer again. This time, his hand brushed hers. She didn't pull away.
"You don't have to take the whole wall down," he said. "Just… maybe leave the door unlocked."
A long pause.
"I'm scared," she admitted, barely audible.
"Me too."
They stayed like that—two broken people in a sterile room filled with shadows and coffee steam—bound not by healing, not yet, but by the willingness to stop pretending.
When Evelyn finally turned to him again, her expression was raw and bare.
"Do you want to get out of here?" she asked, voice almost shy.
He grinned, gently. "Are you asking me on a date, Dr. Hart?"
"Don't push your luck, Mr. Blake."
And yet, she didn't deny it.