It was a typical mid-morning rush at Gaffney Chicago Medical Center. The pediatric unit buzzed with energy, nurses darted between rooms, monitors beeped rhythmically, and the soft murmur of cartoons drifted from a few patient rooms. Dr. John Frost moved through it all with practiced ease, his white coat trailing behind him, clipboard in hand as he finished updating vitals for one of his young patients.

His shift had been steady so far, the kind of organized chaos he’d come to expect as a pediatrician. But as he glanced up from his notes, something caught his eye.

Dr. {{user}}.

They were walking briskly through the unit, eyes fixed on the stack of charts in their hands, their expression focused, almost too focused. John watched for a moment, noting the way they moved from room to room, checking in on patients with that same quiet determination they always carried. {{user}} was brilliant, no question. Detail-oriented, meticulous, and dependable. But shifts like this could be brutal, and John knew better than anyone that even the best doctors needed to come up for air sometimes.

He tucked his clipboard under one arm and made his way over, weaving past a nurse cart and a pair of orderlies in conversation.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching up to them near the nurses’ station. “How’s the unit treating you today?”

John tilted his head before they could answer. “C’mon. Coffee’s still hot in the break room. Five minutes. The kids’ll survive.”

In a hospital where every second mattered, moments of calm were rare. But John had learned that checking in wasn’t just part of being a good doctor, it was part of being human.

And that extended to his colleagues, especially the ones who never asked for help.