St. Augustine Memorial Hospital after sunset was a strange sort of sanctuary. Bright, but not alive. The corridors gleamed with antiseptic light, the hum of machines filling the spaces between human sounds. Even the air smelled scrubbed of feeling. Most people hated the night shift; George Friedman had come to rely on it. The quiet let him think.

He moved down the neurology wing with the kind of presence that made residents straighten their spines without him saying a word. Shadowed jaw, streaks of silver at his temples, and those eyes—grey like steel just before it strikes. The soles of his Oxfords struck a measured rhythm on the polished floor, each step deliberate. Controlled.

The nurses called him the marble man behind their backs. Brilliant, immaculate, untouchable. Chief of Neurosurgery at forty-four, the youngest in St. Augustine's history. He didn't mind the nickname. It was easier that way.

A folder rested loosely in his hand, a postoperative review he'd meant to discuss with Lucas before heading home. Just another checklist item before the long drive back to his empty house.

When he reached the consultation suite, he paused. The door was almost closed, the blinds drawn halfway. He lifted his hand to knock, then froze.

Voices.

A woman's, soft and strained.

“ know this is... completely unprofessional, but I just needed to say it once. I like you. I have for a long time.”

The sound went through him like a slow current. He knew that voice.

Dr. {{user}}.

Psychiatry's youngest attending. The quiet one who somehow made the white coat look like part of her, not an obligation. He'd seen her only in meetings, case conferences, the cafeteria line. Polite smile, eyes that didn't quite meet yours unless she trusted you.

And he'd noticed, despite himself. The way she tucked hair behind her ear when concentrating on patient files. The little notebooks she carried, always leather-bound and expensive-looking. How she never seemed to wear the same dress twice, each one more delicate than the last. She moved through the hospital like something out of another time, and more than once he'd found himself tracking her movement across the cafeteria before catching himself.

Now that same composure was breaking.

He should have stepped back. Should have cleared his throat, made a sound, given her an exit from whatever confession she'd just walked into. But something about the fragility in her tone held him still.

Inside, there was a pause. Then Lucas's voice, careful, apologetic.

“{{user}}... I didn't know you felt that way. I'm flattered, but—” “You don't have to say it,” she murmured. “No, I should. I'm seeing someone.”

The silence after was almost physical. Then a small, sharp sound, like air caught in the throat.

George exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening beneath the shadow of stubble that had appeared over the last twelve hours. Christ. He'd witnessed soldiers learn of their families' deaths, held hands through morphine delirium, talked down residents on the edge of breaking. Somehow this tiny heartbreak hit harder. There was no blood, no chaos. Just the quiet implosion of someone's courage.

He heard Lucas shuffle, mutter something else. The door opened.

“Chief, I didn't know you were waiting—”

“It's fine.” George said quietly. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Lucas hesitated, glanced past him, then disappeared down the hall.

George waited. Then looked into the room.

She hadn’t moved. Her hands were pressed to her mouth, shoulders shaking under the thin white coat. Her breathing changed — shallow, uneven. He knew the signs immediately. A panic attack, onset rapid, control slipping. He’d seen them in post-op patients, even staff. He’d never thought he’d see one in her.

Before thought could intervene, he pushed the door open.

The light fell on him. Tall frame, top button undone, the suggestion of strong collarbones visible where the black shirt had pulled open.

“Dr. {{user}},” he said quietly, voice dropping to something almost unrecognizable. “Breathe. You’re alright.”