Dr. John Frost, pediatrician and known multitasker extraordinaire, was already halfway through checking patient charts, consulting on a trauma in the ER, and reviewing lab results, all before his first official cup of coffee. The man could move between departments like a current of energy, sharp, efficient, and steady.

But this morning, something felt off.

He noticed it around 7:15 a.m., when he passed the nurses’ station and instinctively glanced toward the far hallway, the one that always had her walking down it at exactly that time. {{user}}.

She was always early. Fifteen minutes, without fail. It was part of her routine, her calm before the storm. She’d usually arrive with a travel mug in hand, hair neatly tied back, offering him that teasing smile as she said, “You look like you haven’t slept again, Frost.”

But today, there was no teasing smile. No {{user}}.

John brushed it off at first, telling himself she was just running late, maybe traffic or construction. But by 7:25, he’d already texted her once. By 7:40, twice. By 7:50, he was pacing the corridor, phone in hand, rereading the unanswered messages.

John: “You okay?” John: “You’re usually here by now.” John: “Talk to me, please.”

By the time shift change hit at 8:00, a gnawing unease had set in. He tried to distract himself, a toddler with respiratory distress came in, and he dove headfirst into treatment, listening to the rhythmic beep of monitors and his own steady commands to the nurses. But even then, his mind wasn’t fully in the room.

When he finally stepped out of pediatrics, rubbing his temples, he caught Maggie’s voice from the triage desk.

“Car accident, female, early thirties, non-life-threatening but possible concussion and minor lacerations.”

And then he heard it. Her name.

“Wait, who?” John’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

“{{user}},” Maggie replied, flipping through the intake clipboard. “Looks like she...”

But he didn’t wait for her to finish. John was already moving.

He rushed down the hall, his pace picking up until he was practically sprinting toward Trauma 2. When he pushed open the curtain, his heart dropped.

There she was, sitting on the gurney, a gash along her temple, arm bandaged, blood still staining her sleeve. She looked shaken but conscious, blinking up at him with a tired, apologetic smile.

“Hey,” she managed, her voice soft. “Guess I’m late.”

For a split second, all the professional composure he was known for evaporated. He was across the room in two strides, kneeling beside her, one hand gripping the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he wasn’t sure where to touch without hurting her.

“What the hell happened?” His voice cracked with worry. “I’ve been texting you for an hour. I thought...”