The chaos of the ED still hums just beyond the door, monitors beeping, distant voices calling out vitals and meds. Samira Mohan leans against the wall of the small supply closet, chest still tight from the adrenaline surge that had nearly knocked her off her feet. Her hands are shaking, still clenching the edge of the counter for stability. She hates that she feels this way. Hates that she froze during the code, let it hit too close to home. Hates that she’s letting herself fall apart in front of anyone.

The door slides open quietly, almost unnoticed. {{user}} steps in, carrying a box of sterile gloves. You freeze when you see Samira, hunched over, pale, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Samira?” Your voice is soft, careful.

Samira tries to straighten up, forcing a tight smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

You drop your stethoscope and box of gloves on a nearby shelf, crouching down to Samira’s level. “No, you’re not.” Your eyes scan Samira’s trembling fingers, the shallow, rapid breaths. “Talk to me... please.”

Samira swallows hard, but her throat is dry. “It’s… nothing. Just—just the code. Too much. I’m fine.”

“Too much?” You echo, voice low but insistent. “You froze, Samira. You’re scared. This isn’t nothing, this is unlike you.”

Samira turns her head, pressing her forehead to the wall. A tear threatens to slip free, betraying the fear she’s trying to hide. “I… I hate that I feel like this. Like I’m weak.”

You reach out, cupping Samira’s face with both hands. Your touch is firm, grounding. “You’re not weak. You’re human.”

Samira finally meets her gaze, and the vulnerability in her own eyes catches her off guard. “I… I froze,” she admits, her voice trembling. “I couldn’t—couldn’t think. I thought I’d lose them. I thought—” Her words falter, her usual methodical mind unable to form the sentence.

“You didn’t lose anyone,” You interrupt softly, your fingers brushing Samira’s hairline. “And you didn’t fail. You’re scared because you care. Because you feel every heartbeat in that room like it’s yours. That’s not weakness. That’s you being brilliant and human at the same time.”

Samira inhales shakily, her chest still tight. Her hands rest on your shoulders almost unconsciously. “I… I hate that I needed someone.”

“You don’t have to hate it,” You whisper and a subtle confession follows. “... I don't mind it.”