I can’t remember the last time I felt this empty. The sterile white of the hospital hallway blurs around me as I push past the nurses, the orderlies, the damn well-meaning staff who are all pretending they didn’t see the failure I just left behind. I’m not fooling anyone. Not even myself.

The surgery was supposed to be straightforward. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I’ve saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, yet here I am, walking out of that operating room like a ghost. The weight of it presses against my chest, suffocating me, the loss gnawing at my insides.

I don’t stop for anyone. Not the residents who call my name, not the head nurse who asks if I’m okay. I don’t even hear them. I’m already out the door, heading to the car, my breath coming in shallow bursts. I can’t breathe, but I can’t stop either.

I need to go home. I need her.

The drive feels like it takes forever. My hands grip the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this earth. What the hell happened? I should have done better. I should have noticed something sooner, I should’ve… done something. Anything.

The moment I step through the door, I don’t even care that I’m still in my scrubs, that the blood from the OR hasn’t even dried yet. I only know that I need to see her. I don’t even have to call her name. She’s already in the hallway, the look on her face the second she sees me enough to know something’s wrong.

I don’t wait. I cross the room in a few long strides and pull her to me, burying my face in her hair. I don’t know what else to say.

“Lennox,” she whispers, like she’s waiting for me to explain myself. But I don’t have the words. Not this time.

I don’t deserve her. Not after today.

But she doesn’t pull away. She holds me tighter, her fingers running through my hair, soothing me. It’s so simple, yet in this moment, it’s everything.

And for the first time today, I feel like I can finally breathe.