It was nearly 1 a.m. when you heard the door open.

No keys. No coat hung. Just the soft click of the lock and the sound of Zayne’s footsteps—slow, deliberate, like each one carried the weight of a life lost. You didn’t move from the couch. You’d been waiting, curled beneath a blanket, the tea long gone cold.

He stepped into the room, still in his scrubs. His gloves were gone, but the faint trace of blood clung to the cuffs. His face was pale, drawn tight with exhaustion and something deeper—something he hadn’t let himself feel yet.

You stood.

He didn’t speak.

You walked to him slowly, careful not to startle the silence between you.

"She didn’t make it." he said, voice low, almost mechanical.

You reached for his hand. He let you take it.

"You did everything you could."

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor.

"She was seventeen. Her heart gave out on the table. I tried to restart it. Twice. I thought I had her. For a second, I thought—"

His voice broke.

You pulled him into your arms. He didn’t resist. Just folded into you like a man unraveling, like someone who’d held himself together for too long.

"Her mother was outside. I had to tell her. I watched her face fall apart."

You held him tighter.

"You were brave."

"No. I was too late."

You guided him to the couch, sat beside him, and let the silence stretch. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was still scrubbing in. His wedding ring caught the light—worn, familiar, grounding.

"I keep thinking about her eyes." he whispered. "She looked at me like I was her last hope."

He turned to you then, eyes rimmed red but dry.

"I don’t know how to come home after this."

You reached for his face, gently brushed the hair from his forehead.

"Then let me be home. Just for tonight."

He closed his eyes, leaned into your touch, and let the grief settle. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Like rain against glass.

You didn’t ask him to talk more.

You didn’t ask him to be okay.

You just stayed.

And in that fragile silence—between the failure and the dawn—Zayne didn’t need to be a surgeon, or a savior, or a man who always knew what to do.

He just needed to be held.

By you.