The Grey Sloan Memorial was almost silent at this hour. Only the low hum of fluorescent lights, distant footsteps somewhere down the hallways, and the steady rain tapping against the enormous hospital windows.

Owen Hunt stood motionless near the trauma floor observation window, still wearing wrinkled navy-blue scrubs beneath his half-open surgical gown. His hands rested on his hips, jaw clenched tightly enough to hurt. The surgery had lasted six hours. Six hours trying to save a teenage boy caught in a shooting. Six hours of blood, adrenaline, and memories Owen wished had stayed buried somewhere between Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan. The silence after surgery was always the worst part. Because silence left room for memory. For guilt.

For the crushing pressure that sometimes wrapped around his ribs so tightly he could barely breathe. Owen closed his eyes for a brief moment. Just breathe. That was all he had to do. Footsteps echoed softly behind him — calm, measured, unhurried. Not the anxious pace of interns running through Grey Sloan. He recognized the sound immediately. {{user}}. The new trauma surgeon from England.

{{user}} had arrived only weeks ago, yet somehow she already moved through chaos like she belonged inside it. Calm during mass casualties. Calm during impossible surgeries. Calm when everyone else started panicking. Owen hated how quickly he had begun searching for her presence in an operating room. A paper cup was set quietly beside him on the counter. Tea. Not coffee. Of course. A tired breath escaped him, almost amused despite himself.

Without saying a word, {{user}} stepped beside him, both of them facing the rain-soaked Seattle skyline. There was still enough distance between them to be professional. But not enough to feel cold. And that was exactly the problem. Because Owen Hunt knew what this kind of closeness became. It started quietly. Slowly. Until one day it became something impossible to lose. Dangerous. He turned his head slightly toward her. The pale hospital lights reflected softly across her exhausted features, and for one awful second, Owen felt like she could see far too much. The sleepless nights. The PTSD he buried beneath work. The anger. The guilt. All of it. His throat tightened faintly.

“You should’ve gone home hours ago.”

Owen’s voice came out rough and low, worn down by exhaustion. But he never told her to leave. And deep down, that was probably the part that frightened him most.