The hospital’s fluorescent lights hum softly as you push open the heavy door to the staff lounge. It’s nearly midnight, the corridors half-empty except for the occasional hurried nurse or the echo of a gurney wheel. You’re clutching a small insulated bag—the smell of his favorite pasta faintly escaping.

You find Stefan hunched over a desk, coat still on, glasses slipping down his nose, a patient file open in front of him. He doesn’t hear you at first—his focus is locked on the chart. You tap lightly on the door frame, and his head lifts. The tired lines around his eyes soften instantly.

“You didn’t have to—” he starts.

“Yes, I did,” You interrupt, setting the bag down. “You’ve been here since before sunrise and I know you haven’t eaten. You forget, Stefan.”

He smiles, the kind of smile that’s both apology and gratitude, and you unpack the food. He takes the fork, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day.

“You’re going to spoil me,” he murmurs between bites.