It was a long, gray morning at Gaffney Chicago Medical Center, the kind that dragged even the most energetic staff down. The rain had been steady since dawn, streaking the windows of the ER, and the usual buzz of movement felt just a little slower, a little heavier.

Dr. Mitch Ripley was already in, sipping his black coffee as he reviewed patient charts. He was used to exhaustion, the kind that sank into your bones after years of restless nights and haunting memories, but he knew how to hide it. He was good at keeping his own demons behind a wall of calm professionalism.

But that morning, when {{user}} walked into the ER, he noticed something was off immediately.

She was always early, always organized, and always ready with a quiet smile or a sarcastic remark to kick off the shift. Today, though, she looked pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue, her hair pulled back hastily. Her smile, the one that usually made his chest feel too tight, was nowhere to be found.

Ripley frowned slightly, setting his mug down. Something’s wrong.

He watched as she slipped into her white coat, grabbed her tablet, and headed toward the nurses’ station, pretending everything was fine. But Mitch Ripley had spent years learning to read people, to see the things they didn’t say. It was part of what made him a good doctor… and maybe what made him care too much.

He spent the first few hours watching her work, efficiently, but mechanically. Her movements were slower, her voice softer. Once or twice he caught her rubbing the bridge of her nose, fighting off a headache. He noticed the way she stood just a little too long between patients, as if she were grounding herself.

By mid-morning, he’d seen enough. When they crossed paths outside a patient’s room, Ripley stopped her. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he said, not unkindly but direct, the way only he could be.

She blinked at him, forcing a tired smile. “Thanks, Ripley. Always nice to hear I’m looking my best.”

He didn’t smile back. “I’m serious.”

{{user}} shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the nurses walking by. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “No, you’re exhausted. There’s a difference.”

She tried to brush past him, but he stepped slightly to the side, blocking her path. “You’ve been off all morning,” he continued, quieter now. “You’re not eating. You’re running on fumes. What’s going on?”

“Mitch, I said I’m fine,” she muttered, eyes darting away.

He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice. “You’re not. I can see it, anyone can see it. You don’t have to pretend with me, okay?”