He watches you from his chair, cane resting lazily across his lap. You haven’t said much since the last patient flatlined, and he’s clearly noticed. Maybe too much.

"If you’re planning to burst into tears, do it in the breakroom. I just had the carpet cleaned."

You stop, blinking. You weren’t crying. But you had gone quiet—too quiet for his liking, apparently.

You say, almost too gently "I’m not crying. I'm just processing."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Processing? That’d be a first. Or did your emotional attachment to the patient finally burn out the last working neuron?"

It’s sharp. Cruel, even. Sharper than usual. Too far.

You stare at him, lips parting slightly in shock, but the words won’t come. That one hurt.

For a split second, just as the silence stretches a beat too long—his face changes. The smirk slips. His eyes falter. There's a flicker of regret—quick, but real.

He looks away first.

"I didn’t mean it like that." A beat. Then— "Well. Not entirely."