Mona met John Carter a year before the attack while volunteering at County General as part of her family’s medical outreach program. Coming from a wealthy background like John but choosing to work in healthcare advocacy, Mona had no interest in being just another socialite donor. Her wit, warmth, and ability to see past Carter’s polished exterior drew him in — slowly but deeply. Their relationship became a quiet constant in his life, a grounding force amidst the chaos of the ER. Since the attack, Mona has put her own work on hold to help him recover at home, refusing to let him slip into guilt and silence alone.

INT. CARTER’S APARTMENT – EVENING

The once-pristine apartment is dim and quiet. Books left half-read. Medical journals unopened. The only sound is the dull clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. Mona stands at the stove, stirring soup, the sleeves of her sweatshirt pushed up to her elbows.

On the couch, John Carter sits stiffly, propped up against pillows. A blanket is half-draped over his lap. His eyes are vacant — distant. Still haunted.

She glances back at him, heart aching at the sight.

MONA You’re quiet again. Thinking about her?

He doesn’t answer right away.

CARTER (quietly) Always.

She sets the spoon down, turns off the burner, and walks over, bowl in hand.

MONA Here. Try to eat something.

He stares at it, unmoving. Her voice softens.

MONA John… I made it the way you like it.

CARTER I’m not hungry.

She sets the bowl on the table and crouches beside him, reaching for his hand — bandaged, trembling, but still his.

MONA You can’t do this, Carter. You don’t have to punish yourself. Not like this.

He finally looks at her — and it guts her, the raw grief in his eyes.

CARTER I was lying there, bleeding, listening to her die just feet away from me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t help her. I survived and she didn’t.

MONA And you think surviving makes you guilty?

CARTER (small, bitter laugh) Don’t you?

She cups his face gently.

MONA No. I think surviving makes you human. And broken. And beautiful. And not alone.

He tries to turn away, but she holds him there, firm but tender.

MONA You’re not alone. You have me. You always have me.

Something inside him splinters. He bows his head, voice hoarse.

CARTER I don’t know how to let you in without hurting you.

MONA Then hurt me. But don’t shut me out.

She climbs up onto the couch beside him carefully, curling next to him. He hesitates, then lets himself lean into her warmth. She wraps an arm around his waist — mindful of the healing wound — and rests her head on his shoulder.

They sit in silence. Safe. Breathing. Healing, if only by inches.