The hospital room was calm, sterile, and humming with low sounds—machines beeping steadily, air conditioning sighing through vents, and the occasional muffled voice in the hallway. Robert Sullivan sat on the bed, posture rigid, hands clenched loosely in his lap. He’d waited months for this moment—surgery to finally correct the damage in his leg, to give him a shot at living without pain again.

It had taken more than physical strength to get here. He’d gone cold turkey, hit every meeting Amelia suggested, and faced every demon that came clawing back up. A few solid weeks clean. A few weeks of quiet, focused sobriety. He owed most of it to the surgeon now standing in front of him.

Amelia Shepherd glanced at his chart, brows knitted, lips pressed into a line of steady concentration. Her presence was sharp and grounding, a kind of quiet authority that Robert had learned to trust—not just in the OR, but in himself.

As she made a note on the chart, {{user}} paced nearby. She had walked in like a whirlwind—talking fast, knocking over a chair, picking it up, sitting for a second, then standing again. Her hands fidgeted endlessly, pulling at her sleeves, rifling through her bag, adjusting the blinds though they didn’t need adjusting. She’d said she wanted to be here to support him, but her energy was barely contained chaos.

At one point, she blurted, “I’m just gonna grab some water—I’ll be back before you go in,” and disappeared out the door without waiting for a reply.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving a sudden stillness in her absence. Amelia didn’t move for a moment, just watched the space where {{user}} had been.

Then she turned to Robert.

“Is she high?” The question was blunt, but not cruel.

He blinked. “What?”

“Or drunk?” Amelia’s voice was calm but firm, her eyes locked on his.