Snow rests across the estate grounds in a white blanket that softens the edges of the trees and the long curve of the driveway. The stillness outside the tall sitting room windows rests against the glass, making the house feel even larger than it already is.
I sit curled into the corner of the deep sofa, a mug of hot tea cupped between both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms as the clock on the far wall ticks, its echo faintly echoing through the room.
The estate never truly sleeps. Security moves through the halls at intervals, boots crossing somewhere deeper in the house and doors opening and closing as patrols rotate, yet without Kiren here, the energy of the place feels off in a way I can’t ignore.
He left hours ago. I sit with the tea warming my hands and breathe in the faint chamomile rising from the mug, though my mind keeps circling back to where he went tonight. He didn’t walk me through the details before he left, yet he didn’t need to. I understand enough about the war unfolding around us to know whatever happens out there won’t stay contained to one night.
I take a careful sip and lean my elbow against the arm of the sofa, listening to the silence of the estate and the soft wind brushing across the outer walls.
Footsteps move along the hallway outside the sitting room, slow and careful in a way that makes me lower the mug and turn toward the doorway just as Lila appears there. She pauses with one hand resting lightly against the frame, studying the room before crossing toward me.
Her dark curls are gathered loosely at the back of her neck, and the oversized sweater she wears hangs softly over the bandages wrapped beneath it, where the bullet passed through her side days ago. Even moving carefully, she holds her body with the quiet caution of someone who knows exactly how easily healing tissue can tear.
“You should be asleep,” she murmurs, easing down into the armchair across from the sofa.
“You should be asleep, too,” I answer, lifting the mug slightly toward her.
The corner of her mouth curves with tired amusement. “Touché.”
I lean forward and slide the teapot from the tray on the low table between us, pouring another cup before handing it across to her. The scent of chamomile fills the space between us.
Neither of us speaks, and the quiet doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Years of shared hospital shifts taught us how to exist in silence while exhaustion wrapped around our shoulders like another layer of clothing.
Lila brings the cup toward her lips and exhales slowly before taking a careful sip.
“Charlotte Memorial must be falling apart without us,” she comments, glancing toward the window before returning her attention to me.
I smile faintly and lean back into the cushions. “Dr. Henson will run the trauma board like a battlefield commander. Half the interns will cry before sunrise.”
Her shoulders lift with a soft laugh that fades into a careful inhale.
“God, the interns,” she replies, shaking her head lightly. “Remember the first night we got the trauma pager during residency?”
I nod slowly. “Motorcycle collision. Three patients at once.”
“And you walked straight into the operating room like you had been doing it for twenty years.”
“That was adrenaline,” I reply.
“That was terrifying,” she counters, lifting her cup again. “You looked calm enough to intimidate everyone else in the room.”
I let out a quiet breath and study the tea swirling gently inside my mug. Calm is relative. Trauma medicine trains the brain to sort chaos into priorities. Breathing. Circulation. Bleeding. Stabilize first, ask questions later. The habit doesn’t disappear when you leave the hospital. It follows you home, embedding itself in muscle memory and observation. It becomes part of you.
Lila tilts her head and studies my face with a familiar expression that always means she is about to pry into something personal.
“So,” she begins, lowering the mug slowly. “How are you feeling?”
My hand drifts instinctively toward my abdomen before I realize what I’m doing. The motion draws her attention immediately. I let out a soft breath and rest my palm lightly against the fabric of my sweater before returning it to the mug.
“It’s strange,” I admit.
“Strange how?”
I consider the question while my eyes move briefly toward the fireplace where the flames burn low behind the glass.
“Exhaustion that hits out of nowhere,” I explain quietly. “Nausea at the most inconvenient times. Yesterday I almost gagged during lunch because Kiren’s chef was frying fish.”
Lila wrinkles her nose. “That should be illegal.”
