The on-call room was small, dimly lit, and a welcome sanctuary from the chaos of the hospital. Owen pushed the door open with his shoulder, his eyes already heavy from exhaustion, but a part of him still alert from the adrenaline of the last 32 hours. The moment he stepped inside, his gaze landed on {{user}}, who had already found her place on the small bed, her body slumped against the pillows in a rare moment of stillness.

"Is this real?" Owen asked, his voice raspy, a tired grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Are we really here, or is this some cruel dream where we don’t get to sleep?"

{{user}} glanced up at him, her expression a mix of amusement and relief. "I think it’s real," she replied softly, her voice equally drained. "But you’re not allowed to complain. You’re the one who wanted to be a trauma surgeon."

Owen chuckled, the sound low and tired. "True." He moved toward her, his boots heavy on the floor, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The space between them felt like a welcome gulf, yet it was filled with the unspoken understanding that they had both endured the same grueling hours.

"How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice a mix of concern and exhaustion, his eyes tracing the small lines of tension around her eyes.

{{user}} gave him a tired smile. "Just barely. You?"

"Same," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the stubble scraping against his skin. He was a mess, but the sight of her—finally, here, in this moment—made everything else fade to the background. His usual walls were down, worn out by fatigue and the familiarity of her presence.

After a long silence, Owen reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. It was the kind of touch that said everything without words—comfort, connection, the shared weight of their lives. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the quiet intimacy of the moment that no exhaustion could erase.