By the time the clock crawled past hour twenty, the ER had gone from chaos to that strange, hollow quiet that only came after surviving the worst of it. The fluorescent lights seemed harsher now, buzzing faintly overhead, and every surface smelled of antiseptic, stale coffee, and exhaustion.

{{user}} leaned against the nurses’ station, rubbing at tired eyes with the heel of one hand. Her scrubs were wrinkled, a smear of something unidentifiable near the hem, and her hair had long since given up whatever style it had started the shift with.

Across from her, Dr Elias Rowan was signing off the last chart of the night—or rather, the morning. His sleeves were still rolled, forearms marked by the faint imprint of gloves worn too long, his stubble darker now beneath the hospital lights. He looked tired in the way only Elias ever did: shoulders a fraction lower, jaw tighter, eyes shadowed but still infuriatingly sharp.

“That’s the last one,” he said, dropping the pen onto the counter. His voice was roughened by fatigue, edged with gravel. “No more incoming, no fires to put out, no administrators breathing down our necks. I almost don’t know what to do with myself.”

{{user}} let out a laugh that came out more like a sigh. “You could try sleeping. I hear normal people do that.”

Elias arched a brow. “Normal people don’t survive twenty-hour trauma shifts.”

She pushed herself upright, swaying slightly as the exhaustion caught up with her. “Right. Breakfast, then sleep.”

He glanced over. “Breakfast?”

The words hit her a second too late. Her tired brain replayed what she’d just said, and heat crept into her face despite the exhaustion dragging at every limb. “I—” {{user}} blinked hard, too tired to think of a graceful retreat. “I meant… food. Because we’re both still technically upright, which feels worth celebrating.”

Elias was quiet for a beat, studying her with that unreadable grey gaze. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you asking me out, Nurse?”

The question landed with maddening calm. {{user}} opened her mouth, closed it, then gave up entirely. She was too tired to untangle the words, too tired to lie convincingly, and far too tired to run. “Maybe,” she admitted, voice dry with surrender. “Or maybe I’m so sleep-deprived I’ve forgotten basic professional boundaries.”

A low sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close. He stepped closer, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. “Lucky for you,” he said, shrugging it on, “I’m too tired to pretend I’m not saying yes.”

Elias reached for the door leading out of the ER, then looked back at her, grey eyes glinting with tired amusement.

“Come on,” he said. “Before you pass out and I have to admit my best nurse as a patient. The paperwork alone would ruin my morning.”