Raegan tilted her head when he muttered Awful? That’s rude. The words were there, but the tone was all wrong. It wasn’t the half-playful bite she was used to — no spark of mock offense, no cheeky glint in his eyes. Just flat, like it had taken effort to push the syllables out at all. She made a little face at him anyway, because that was her role here, right? “Yeah, rude,” she said with a shrug, the corner of her mouth twitching into a small grin. Normally, she would’ve expected at least a smirk back, maybe a smart remark to volley between them. This time, all she got was that distracted hair-rake of his, fingers making a mess of what had probably already been a lost cause.

Buuutttt, it was eating away at her stomach, so after a split moment she shook her head and wrinkled her nose, kind of looking up at him as though she was inspecting him. "Hmm. I was mistaken. As handsome and charming as ever!" She teased, offering a hopefully encouraging smile.

Still, she didn’t let the mood dip entirely. The wrap comment at least got her to laugh — soft, but real. "You look like you need it." She threw in a mock-solemn nod to seal the statement, hoping the sound of her voice carried him along with her. But his smile, when it came, looked like it had been stitched together from scraps — too taut at the edges, too tired in the middle.

She didn’t push. Not directly. If he wanted to talk, he’d talk. And if he didn’t… well, she could still get him moving. She gestured toward the hallway ahead, stepping forward with a bright little spark in her voice. “Come on, you’ve got the grand tour ahead of you. You’re about to see the inner workings of the mighty Blue Ridge medical empire. I know you’re thrilled.”

The hallway lights hummed overhead, a faint echo of footsteps bouncing off the tile as they walked. She glanced sideways at him now and then — just quick flickers, never long enough to make it obvious she was watching. He looked… restless. Not twitchy, not fidgety exactly, but like every muscle in his body was wound tight and couldn’t quite let go. That thought made her chest tighten, so she focused instead on the first stop.

“This,” she said, sweeping her arm toward a windowed room on their left, “is where the magic happens. And by magic, I mean the thing that makes everyone’s life slightly worse.” Inside, a massive printer-scanner-fax-monstrosity sat humming. “That’s Bertha. She’s temperamental, she eats paper, and she smells faintly of toner and despair. But she’s ours.” The faint grin stayed on her face as she moved on, letting the sight sit there for him, hoping maybe the little slice of absurdity would land somewhere good in his head.

They rounded a corner, passing the nurse’s station. Raegan gave a little wave to one of her coworkers, who raised an eyebrow but smiled back. “And here’s the command center. You have to be at least eighty percent caffeinated to work here or the whole place collapses. It’s in the bylaws.” She took another sip from her own coffee, eyes flicking briefly to his face again. Still distant. Still locked away somewhere she couldn’t quite reach.

So she kept talking, kept pointing things out. If he wouldn’t let her pull him in with questions, she’d try with momentum. She stopped in front of a wall lined with framed photos. “This is my favorite part,” she said, her tone softening but gaining a warmth that was real, unforced. The pictures were of staff events — holiday parties, goofy Halloween costumes, a few candid shots of people mid-laugh. She tapped one with her finger, a photo of her in a ridiculous reindeer headband, holding a tray of cookies. “I made those cookies. They were terrible. Like… sand-with-sugar terrible. But everyone pretended they were amazing. I'll make some for you one day," she chuckled, rolling her eyes at the thought of force feeding him the worst cookies in the entire universe.

Past the photos was a smaller, cozier lounge area, and her voice picked up with genuine enthusiasm. “Okay, and this—this is the crown jewel. Staff room coffee machine. It makes coffee so strong it could probably dissolve concrete. But it’s fast, and when you’ve been on your feet for nine hours, that’s all that matters.” She reached out to pat the top of the machine like it was a pet. “Forget the doctors, surgens and nurses. You have no idea how many lives this thing has saved.”

They lingered there for a moment. She busied herself with rinsing out her cup, all the while feeling that pull in her gut — the awareness of him standing beside her, heavy in his silence. She didn’t ask. She didn’t tell him she could see it written in the set of his shoulders or the way he kept scanning the corners of the room like he was waiting for something to happen. Instead, she refilled her coffee and handed him a cup without asking if he wanted it.

The tour carried them further in, her words flowing easier now that she was on familiar ground. “Over here’s the supply room. It’s chaos. We have a system, it just looks like a linen closet that exploded.” She swung the door open to reveal shelves stacked with neatly labeled bins, her voice lifting with a touch of pride. “Okay, I organized this. It was a disaster before. I deserve a medal.”

Through it all, that little thread of worry tugged at her. She didn’t know what storm he was standing in, but she could feel it radiating off him in quiet waves. And the more she talked, the more she wanted to pull him into something lighter — not because it would fix anything, but because maybe, just for a moment, it could be a crack in whatever wall he’d built up around himself in the last... fifteen hours?

Finally, she nudged open her office door and waved him in. “And here we are. Try not to be too impressed.” It was modest — desk, shelves lined with binders and a few potted plants that were somehow still alive. On the wall, a corkboard crammed with postcards, photos, and little doodles from patients. She dropped into her chair and gestured for him to take the one across from her. “You sit there, you eat that wrap, finish that coffee, then I'll set you free if you ask nicely," she chirped.

She smiled at him, not forcing it, but letting it be warm and steady. If she couldn’t get him to relax, she could at least anchor him here, in this room, with her. Maybe later, when the tour (that she was actually incredibly excited about) was over, he’d relax a bit. But for now, she’d keep talking, keep showing him the pieces of her world that made her proud of... well, herself she supposed. She wanted to share that with him, no matter how self-involved it may sound.