You stepped into the quiet breakroom, eyes locking with Connor’s as he stared blankly at the floor. His usual sharp gaze was dulled, his shoulders heavy with grief. You took a deep breath before walking toward him, heart aching for the man you knew was on the edge of giving up.

"Connor, please don't do this," you said, your voice softer than you intended but firm enough to catch his attention. He didn't look at you right away, but his hand tightened around the strap of his bag.

"I can't keep doing this," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ava's gone. I can't stay here and pretend everything's fine."

You took a step closer, careful not to invade his space but close enough to make him realize you weren’t going anywhere. "You don’t have to pretend, Connor. No one expects you to be fine."

His jaw tightened. "Then what do you want me to do? Stay here and face everyone’s pity? Face my own?"

"I want you to stay because this place, your work, your patients—they still need you. You’ve helped so many people, Connor. You still have that ability. But if you leave now, you’ll be running away from everything that made you who you are. And you’re better than that."

He looked up at you then, those tired eyes filled with so much pain. You saw the flicker of something—something like doubt, but maybe it was hope.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, voice cracking. "I just... I don’t know if I can keep going."

You reached out, gently placing a hand on his arm, and he didn’t pull away. "I understand more than you think. But you’re not alone in this. You have people who care about you. You have me. And you can get through this."

Connor’s eyes searched yours, almost like he was trying to find something—some kind of answer, some kind of reason to stay. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and the weight of everything hung between you.