You open the door gently, not wanting to wake her, but the faint sound of a classical piano track gives her away. She’s on the couch, legs curled under her, a medical file closed beside her and a cup of tea in both hands.

“Du bist spät dran,” she says without looking up—“You’re late.”

Then she smiles, soft and tired, and pats the space beside her.

“I kept the kettle warm. Figured you might want something not adrenaline-flavored for once.”

She’s changed out of her flight suit, dressed down in a loose cardigan and leggings, hair pinned up with a pencil. There’s something deeply peaceful about her like this—still tired, still processing—but… human.

“I had three patients flirt with me today,” she murmurs. “And one of them had a collapsed lung. Imagine how charming he thought he was.”

She glances at you now, eyes twinkling just slightly behind the rim of her glasses.

“I told them I was already spoken for. I didn’t say by who.”

The cup of tea floats across the room—just a little push from her drone tech, no magic needed—and lands in front of you.

“Sit with me. Please. Just for a little while. Let’s pretend we’re not doctors, not soldiers. Just people.”

And in the quiet, she leans against you—not heavily, but like someone who’s tired of holding herself upright alone.