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The city outside was quieter than usual.
Through the windows of the small restaurant, Nora watched the headlights pass like pulses. Inside, everything was dimly lit soft jazz, low murmurs, the scent of roasted herbs and sea salt. It wasn't a place for surgeons. It was a place for people who had time to breathe.
She didn't remember the last time she'd eaten in silence without hearing a monitor.
Across from her, Rowan sat with a glass of red wine he hadn't touched. He looked tired. More than that worn. But still composed.
She was the one who had said yes to this dinner.
And yet, now that they were here, she felt like an impostor in her own body.
"You don't talk much when you're not interrogating someone," he said.
She gave him a glance over her glass. "Neither do you."
He smiled faintly. "I guess that's why this works."
She let herself breathe into that quiet. Not because it felt comfortable. But because she needed to remember how to be someone other than the surgeon, the ghost-hunter, the fraud.
For a few minutes, they talked about nothing. Bad hospital coffee. The vending machine that always ate change. The way interns ran when you just raised an eyebrow.
It was strange.
Gentle.
Until Rowan asked, "Do you ever regret it?"
She looked up slowly. "Regret what?"
"Becoming this version of you."
The question hung there longer than it should have.
She could've lied. She usually leapt at the chance. But the candlelight and the wine and the fact that he hadn't betrayed her... it made lying feel heavier than usual.
"I don't regret what I'm doing," she said finally. "But I regret why I have to do it."
He nodded. Like he understood more than she was ready for.
"I had a sister," she added. Quiet. Almost imperceptible.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
"She used to laugh with her whole body. Even when she couldn't breathe without help."
A pause.
"She died in a room no one monitored properly. Her chart was signed off by someone who didn't check her dosage."
Nora's fingers traced the rim of her glass, slow and mechanical.
"She was fifteen."
Rowan exhaled like something had punched the air out of him.
"Was that here?"
She didn't answer. But the look in her eyes said enough.
"I'm sorry."
She nodded once. Then, with a weak smile: "That's why I don't sleep much."
After dinner, they walked.
Westbridge lay behind them like a shadow cast over pavement and time. Their footsteps echoed lightly, and for the first time, Nora let them fall in sync.
They stopped near a bridge just above a still body of water, reflections broken by passing wind. Rowan leaned against the railing.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
She gave him a sidelong glance. "That's the point."
He didn't smile this time. "No, I mean it. You're sharp, and brutal, and brilliant... but also trying not to fall apart."
She didn't respond. But something shifted in her posture.
He looked at her. Not her file. Not her role. Her.
"Let me help you."
The words came too fast, too honest.
"I don't need help," she said. Not cruelly. Just tired.
"I know," he replied. "But maybe you deserve it anyway."
Later, in her apartment, she stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. Her face was calm. But her eyes weren't.
She opened the drawer of her desk. A folder inside. One she hadn't touched in months.
Inside: Lily's last medical report. A hospital band. A photo, blurred on the edges.
She traced her sister's face with her fingertip.
"I'm trying," she whispered. "I promise."
But in the reflection behind her, the light on her laptop blinked once.
Connected. Watching.