The hospital felt colder than usual. Not in temperature but in presence. The air carried a silence too heavy to ignore, pressing down on every surface like a memory no one dared name. Nora moved through the corridors like a ghost haunting a place she once commanded with certainty. Her white coat still brushed against her legs as she walked, her fingers still flipped through patient charts, her voice still gave calm, clipped instructions to wide-eyed interns. But something had changed. It was in her shoulders, drawn tighter. In her pace, faster than usual. In her eyes, scanning rooms too quickly, always moving just ahead of the silence that trailed behind her like smoke.
Since the disciplinary hearing, everything had shifted off-center. Rowan had defended her, stood in front of that sterile committee and spoken on her behalf. He had taken the hit that wasn't his to take, carried the blame that had never belonged to him. Part of her wanted to believe that was enough. That his loyalty, his courage, the simple fact that he stood beside her, would erase the jagged fracture that had begun forming the moment the hearing ended. But the truth had a way of surviving. And it had grown louder in the quiet. Rowan had known her sister's name.
Not completely. Not in a way that screamed guilt. But enough. Enough to connect pieces of a past Nora had never invited him into. And the fact that he'd stayed silent hadn't asked, hadn't told felt like something deeper than omission. It felt like betrayal.
She never accused him. Nora didn't do drama. She didn't throw words like daggers or make scenes in break rooms. Instead, she did what she always did when something became dangerous: she pulled away. First came the skipped coffee breaks. Then the unread messages. Then the late shifts she scheduled deliberately, always just after he left. And Rowan noticed. Of course he did. Because knowing someone meant recognizing their patterns, and knowing Nora meant seeing through the space she used as a shield.
He caught up to her on a Thursday night. Both of them staying late. Both of them pretending the timing was coincidence. She stood outside the stairwell, flipping through a patient's chart, her face lit by the fluorescent light that buzzed faintly above her head. Rowan didn't speak immediately. He just stood close enough for her to feel him there. Waiting.
You've been avoiding me.
She didn't lift her eyes from the page.
I've been working.
That's not what I asked.
She closed the folder with deliberate care, then looked up at him. Her expression wasn't cold, but it was far. Like something between them had quietly clicked shut.
You never asked me about Lily.
Rowan froze. The words landed between them, heavier than anything she could have yelled.
You never asked what she was like. What happened. Why I came back. You just… took the story and held it like it wasn't yours to feel.
I didn't want to push you, he said, voice softer now, like that might make it hurt less.
You didn't want to know.
Her tone wasn't cruel. It wasn't accusatory. It was worse. It was honest.
Rowan swallowed, the lump in his throat unfamiliar, unwelcome.
I know now.
She nodded, once. But it wasn't agreement. It wasn't forgiveness. It was resignation.
Too late, she whispered.
There were no shouts. No slammed doors. Just the ache of everything they hadn't said building between them like a wall no one dared touch.
Don't shut me out, he said.
I'm not. You were never all the way in.
The words hit him like a blade in the ribs. Because he knew they were true. And because she said them without anger, without venom, just a steady kind of finality that didn't need explanation.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
She turned and walked away, the soft echo of her steps louder than anything he might have said.
That night, in her apartment, Nora stood in front of the window for over an hour, unmoving. The city beyond was a blur of white and yellow light, headlights streaking past in fast motion, buildings glowing against the dark. She clutched Lily's photo in one hand, Rowan's name still etched in the back of her mind like a shadow that wouldn't lift. She had trusted him with her silence. And now even that felt stolen.
Rowan didn't sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, elbows on knees, the file folder open beside him. Lily's photo stared back from the creased paper. Her face was faded in places where the fold had worn through the ink. He wanted to fix it, to smooth it, to make the damage disappear. But some things didn't smooth over. Some things didn't unbreak.
Because trust wasn't a stitch. It wasn't something you sewed back together with the right words. Trust was a pulse. And tonight, he couldn't feel hers anymore.