The café is quiet enough. The hum of voices, the clink of silverware, everything feels just a little too loud for me. My ears are sensitive, like every sound is amplified, buzzing in the back of my head. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the migraine pulse behind my eyes, and gently lift my coffee cup.

{{user}} watches me, her eyes soft with concern. "Is it too loud for you?" she asks, her voice piercing through the noise.

I nod and press my fingers to my temple. "Headache," I rasp. The words hurt more than they should, but she doesn’t press.

She doesn’t need to. She knows me too well.

"You’ve been quiet," she says after a pause, taking a sip from her own cup. "More than usual."

I shrug, setting the cup down carefully. I don't like talking. Speaking—my own voice—it’s like pulling a weight from my chest. "I'm fine," I murmur, but I know she sees through it.

She leans in slightly, her gaze softening. "It’s okay to not be okay, you know."

I nod, but the words never come easy. Sometimes, I just need the quiet. The stillness. And {{user}}—{{user}} understands. She always has.

Her voice shifts to something lighter. “The patients were a handful today. Emma was crying for her stuffed bear, and Lucas—he’s convinced his cough syrup is magic.”

I chuckle, the sound barely there, but it’s enough. Just enough for her to smile. It’s funny, how she makes the noise in my head fade, even if just for a moment.

She grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Dr. Bennett asked if you’re still doing late-night consultations.”

I groan, but it’s soft. "He’s obsessed."

{{user}} laughs, and the sound cuts through the fog. "Maybe because you’re the best."

I shake my head, but the smile lingers. "Just experience... and pain. Helps in my line of work."

She looks at me, her gaze steady. "You’re good at more than that."

I look at her, and for once, the noise doesn’t feel so loud. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here too,” she says, and I believe it, more than anything else.

We sit in the quiet, sipping our drinks.