The bell above the café door jingled again, but Jane barely looked up this time. A group of college students entered, loud and full of energy, dragging the scent of city chill in with them.
She offered the usual greetings, her hands busy preparing lattes, warming croissants, wiping down the counter between orders. Her apron had a faint dusting of flour now, and a smudge of cinnamon clung to her sleeve—but she didn't mind. She liked this pace. It gave her something to do. Something to focus on.
And yet…
Now and then, her eyes flicked toward the door. Just once. Then again. Not out of hope exactly—more out of… curiosity.
Sophia had been gone barely five minutes.
Jane shook her head softly and returned to the machine, steam hissing around her. Her movements were sure, practiced. She greeted regulars by name, remembered how they liked their drinks. Mr. Ben passed her a grateful nod from the backroom doorway—he always said she brought a certain calm to the place, like music that didn't need to be loud to be felt.
By the time the morning rush thinned, Jane was finally able to take a short breath. She leaned back slightly, stretching her arms behind her. Mia would've teased her if she'd seen how zoned out she was—probably poked her in the ribs and said something ridiculous like "Still thinking about your mystery doctor?"
But Jane wasn't thinking about her. Not really.
She was just… curious, that's all.
Sophia had looked different in the daylight. Still elegant, still composed, but not unreachable. Her smile, though small, had seemed a little less polished. A little more real.
Jane blinked and shook herself out of it.
She tied her apron a bit tighter and reached for the next order slip.
The day wasn't going to slow down just because someone interesting walked in.
Back at the Hospital
Sophia stepped out of her car, the engine's soft hum fading as she locked it behind her. The hospital loomed ahead, tall and familiar, its glass doors catching the morning light. People moved in and out—patients, visitors, tired nurses finishing the night shift. It was a rhythm she knew well, a tempo that never truly stopped.
She adjusted her white coat with practiced grace, checking the collar, smoothing the fabric. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she walked through the automatic doors, the sterile scent of antiseptic meeting her like a welcome she hadn't asked for, but had long gotten used to.
"Morning, Dr. Sophia," the receptionist called, her tone respectful, almost relieved.
Sophia offered a small nod. "Morning, Lani. How's the floor looking?"
"Full. ER's backed up already. Pediatrics called in short, and Dr. Harris left an update on your desk."
Sophia's eyes narrowed slightly, not in annoyance—but calculation. Another heavy day. She'd expected it.
She headed through the corridor, every step precise. The hospital staff greeted her with a mix of admiration and quiet reverence. Not because she was the director's daughter—but because Sophia carried herself like someone who belonged in command, who knew what she was doing and did it well. Her reputation didn't walk ahead of her; it walked with her.
Inside her office, the familiar order wrapped around her like a second skin. Nothing was ever out of place. Her desk—neat. Her schedule—tight. Her lab coat—uncreased. She took a breath, deep but silent, and pulled up the files waiting on her screen.
There was no time to waste.
No room to be tired.
She was here to work.
And that was enough—for now.
Sophia strode through the hallway with purpose, clipboard in hand, coat swaying gently with every calculated step. The hospital was fully alive now—monitors beeping in steady rhythms, wheels of supply carts squeaking across tiles, soft murmurs from patient rooms blending with the sharper instructions exchanged between staff.
She started in Pediatrics, nodding to the nurses and interns who straightened instinctively at her arrival.
"Let's begin," she said, her voice calm but commanding.
Room by room, she moved through the wing, checking charts, adjusting treatments, asking questions with sharp precision. Her presence brought clarity—notes were taken more seriously, observations sharpened, and nervous interns stood straighter under her gaze.
At a boy's bedside, she paused. He was no older than seven, a pale cast hugging his left leg.
"How's the pain today?" she asked, kneeling slightly to meet his eye level.
The boy shrugged. "A little."
Sophia smiled, gentle but composed. "Brave kid."
She checked his chart, adjusted his meds slightly, then turned to the mother. "He's healing well. But keep him still. No ninja moves until we say so."
The mother chuckled softly, visibly comforted.
Sophia offered one last glance before moving on. She didn't linger—her efficiency was part of what made her admired. She knew when to pause for warmth, and when to press forward.
Back in the hallway, she checked the time. Her next stop was the ER—where the real fire usually waited.
As she passed the break room, two nurses stood whispering, halting as soon as they saw her. She didn't say anything, only offered a slight nod. They moved aside quickly, adjusting their postures, their whispers forgotten.
Sophia didn't expect perfection—but she inspired it all the same.
With her clipboard pressed to her side, she turned down the corridor, heading for the floor where the chaos always simmered just beneath the surface.
Another day.
Another life to hold steady.
And she was ready.