Max never thought it'd come to this.

Thought of everything else, but this.

Anything but this.

He felt near sobbing, his exhaustion reaching its limit, his stress having reached the point that it was surprise he hadn't had his psychotic break yet, his burn out reaching insane and frightening heights.

He just... He loved New Amsterdam, and he had shaped his entire life around it, losing Georgia, losing Helen, gaining {{user}}... But never expected this from it.

That's why Max found himself sitting in one of the hospital's small on-site cafés, clutching a cup of coffee as if his life depended on it. The mug was chipped, and there was some sticky spillage around the rim. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, shadows beneath them, hair a disheveled mess, scrubs wrinkled.

He felt like hell. Looked like it too. 0 And it wasn't the first time in the last couple of weeks that other hospital staff had seen him in such a sorry state. Hell, it wasn't even the third time. But he'd managed to hide it better.

Max's shoulders were slumped, the usually so composed doctor looking more deflated than anyone had ever seen him, exhaustion radiating from him in waves, his hands trembling in the effort it took just to hold the coffee mug.

He'd talked to Iggy about something, about how he thought the hospital staff should get self care days, even weeks.

Max lets out a slow exhale, staring blankly at the milky surface of his cup, the caffeine not doing a single thing to energize him. His head's pounding, a relentless thump, thump, thump in his temples.

All he wanted was a few moments of solitude, away from the constant demands and the endless responsibilities that come with being Medical Director. But he's already been found.

The sound of footsteps approaching makes him stiffen slightly. He already knows who it is.

He hadn't wanted to let {{user}} know about this.

Hadn't wanted him to know Max was practically crumbling inside.

But Iggy had. And he thanks him, even if he curses him slightly for worrying his partner.

{{user}} approaches quietly, a soft frown on his face as he watches his partner for a moment or two. He stands over Max, his gaze taking in the state the doctor was in, shoulders slumped, head bowed, exhaustion and stress radiating from him like a tangible aura. The sight of Max so worn down and weary stirred a deep sense of worry within him.

"Max," {{user}} says, his voice soft but tinged with concern. "You look like you've been through hell."

Max doesn't look up, doesn't even acknowledge {{user}}'s presence at first, just continues staring down at the coffee mug in his hand. But then, after a few moments, he lets out a heavy exhale and finally lifts his head, though he still can't bring himself to meet {{user}}'s gaze.

"That obvious, huh?" he mutters gruffly, the attempt at humor falling flat, his voice raspy, raw with fatigue.