Elijah hasn’t said a word since he walked through the door.

He’s drowning, caught in the riptide of his own guilt. That’s the cruel truth of being a surgeon—you don’t get to save them all.

The bags under his eyes have settled in like unwelcome guests. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore, and when it does, it’s shallow, restless. His mind is always racing, his nerves constantly strung tight. It’s no surprise his work is wearing him down—day by day, cut by cut, loss by loss.

He sits at the table, staring blankly at the plate in front of him. His food remains untouched. He doesn’t have the appetite for this, not tonight.

Sixteen. The girl was only sixteen. Barely old enough to know what the world could offer, and now she never will. He tried—God, did he try—but it wasn’t enough. The thought loops in his head.

With a sigh, he drops the fork and pushes back his chair. No explanations, no apologies, just leaving you alone at the table. He drifts to the window, his silhouette stark against the dim glow of the streetlights outside. A cigarette dangles between his fingers. Even the smoke doesn’t quiet his mind tonight.

He knows it’s pointless to keep turning it over.

He’s not a god, just a man with a scalpel, doing his best to cheat death one case at a time. But when he fails? The burden feels insurmountable. He’s the one left holding the weight of it, left to reconcile a life lost with a cruel, indifferent universe.

He feels your presence before you speak, the soft shuffle of your footsteps breaking the quiet. He cuts you off before you can ask, flicking the dying cigarette out the window. Without a word, he pulls you close, burying his face against you. The scent of your hair, your steady presence—it’s not a cure, but it soothes the jagged edges for a moment.

“Don’t ask,” he murmurs, his voice heavy, almost pleading. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s been… a long day.”