The dorm room was quiet except for the faint chirp of birds outside the window. Morning light filtered through thin curtains, casting a soft glow on the walls. Jane's alarm buzzed once, and she reached out from under her blanket, silencing it with practiced ease.
She lay still for a few seconds, her eyes blinking slowly open. Another day. Another shift between reality and chasing dreams.
Mia mumbled something incoherent from the bed across the room, rolling over and pulling the blanket tighter. Jane smiled faintly, then slipped out of bed.
She moved through her routine with a quiet rhythm—washing up, brushing her curls back into a low puff, tying her shoelaces. Her wardrobe was simple: a tucked-in blouse with soft neutral tones, jeans worn in from long walks and part-time jobs, and her ever-reliable canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
Her schedule was light that morning—no lectures until the afternoon—so she decided to make the most of it.
By 7:45, she was out the door, earbuds in, letting her playlist guide her steps through campus paths that still felt too big some days. But she liked the early walks. The world felt softer, quieter. Like it belonged to her.
Ten minutes later, she arrived at the coffee shop. Mr. Ben's wasn't officially open yet, but he always let her in early.
"Morning, sunshine," he greeted from behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine.
"Morning," Jane called back, placing her bag in the staff corner and slipping on her apron. She began setting the tables, humming under her breath, her fingers working with familiar ease—stacking napkins, checking the muffin display, flipping the open sign at exactly 8:00.
The first wave of regulars trickled in—nurses on early shifts, professors with papers tucked under their arms, a quiet student or two. The scent of cinnamon rolls and roasted beans filled the shop, and Jane found herself moving between orders and smiles with ease.
It was calm. Predictable. Comforting.
And even if her mind occasionally flickered to a certain polished doctor who walked like she carried the weight of a whole city—Jane never lingered on the thought.
She had her own little world to manage, one espresso shot at a time.
By midmorning, the café was alive with quiet chatter and clinking mugs. The bell above the door jingled now and then as customers came and went, some offering warm smiles, others too groggy to speak until caffeine touched their veins.
Jane moved between tables with practiced grace. A notepad tucked into her apron, hair pulled into a neat puff, she balanced a tray of steaming mugs and a small plate of croissants. Her posture was relaxed, her movements fluid—but her eyes missed nothing.
Mr. Ben chuckled softly from behind the counter. "You're smoother than the espresso machine today."
Jane grinned as she dropped off a latte. "Years of training under your tyrannical rule."
"Ha! That's gratitude for you."
She liked mornings like this—when the pace was steady, not rushed. When she had time to listen to the little piano notes of the café playlist, time to look out the window at the leaves fluttering gently in the breeze.
Around 10:30, she leaned over the counter for a break, sipping a lukewarm cup of cocoa Mr. Ben had made just for her.
"Tired?" he asked, wiping a cup.
Jane shrugged, eyes scanning the street through the front window. "Didn't sleep too deep."
"Thinking about school?" he asked.
She paused, lowering the mug. "School. Work. Life. All of it."
He nodded knowingly, no need to pry. "You're doing well, Jane. Better than most."
His words sank in quietly. She didn't reply—just offered a small, appreciative smile.
She glanced at the clock above the counter. 3:10 PM.
Her bag was already packed. "I should go. Evening lecture starts soon."
"You need a ride?"
Jane shook her head, untying her apron. "I'll walk. It's not far."
As she turned toward the door, Mr. Ben called out, "Tell your friend Mia to stop scaring off our regulars with those glares of hers."
Jane laughed over her shoulder. "Only if they deserve it."
She stepped out into the sunlit afternoon, the wind teasing her curls as she adjusted her bag and crossed the street toward campus.
Sophia stood in the hallway just outside the pediatric ward, flipping through the notes on her tablet. Her posture was upright, crisp as always, but there was a quiet weight in her shoulders—subtle, yet present. A few nurses passed, nodding respectfully, and she returned the gesture without breaking stride.
Then came a familiar voice from behind her—warm, low, and impossible to mistake.
"Still walking around like you own the place, huh?"
Sophia turned slowly, her expression unreadable at first, until the corner of her mouth lifted faintly. "Nathan."
Her stepbrother stood just a few feet away, dressed in designer casuals, looking far too polished for the sterility of the hospital. He held a bouquet of blue orchids, his signature gift when he wanted to seem thoughtful without trying too hard.
"I figured I'd drop by. You don't answer your texts."
"Because I know what they usually say." Her tone was cool, but there wasn't sharpness in it—just years of careful fencing between two people who understood each other more than they admitted.
Nathan chuckled and held out the flowers. "Peace offering?"
She took them without ceremony, tucking them under one arm as she turned back toward the staff lounge. "Come. I'm on break for exactly ten minutes."
They walked side by side, the echo of their footsteps quiet in the tiled corridor. In the lounge, Sophia placed the bouquet in a vase left on the windowsill and poured herself some water. Nathan remained near the door, glancing around like he didn't belong.
"Still as minimalist as ever," he said, eyeing the lounge's bland walls.
"I'm not here to decorate."
"Right. You're here to outshine everyone, like always."
Sophia didn't respond to that. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at him. "You didn't come just to drop flowers."
Nathan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "No. Mom's... ramping up again. She's saying you're pulling strings to get more shares from Dad's name."
Sophia's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "Let her say what she wants. I've never cared about the money."
"I know," he said softly. "I told her that. She won't listen."
There was a pause—thick with history. Years of cold breakfasts and clipped conversations. Their childhood was a polite warzone, but somehow, Nathan had grown up untouched by their mother's venom.
"You're nothing like her," Sophia finally said.
"I try not to be."
Sophia's lips twitched into something almost like a smile. "You're still annoying, though."
"Balance," Nathan grinned.
Their eyes met, and for a second, the tension dissolved. Just two siblings sharing a moment in a gray-toned hospital lounge, pretending the world outside didn't hum with the undercurrents of inheritance, resentment, and unspoken wounds.
Sophia finished her water and straightened. "I have to get back to work."
Nathan gave a half-salute. "Don't work too hard, Doctor Harris."
She walked past him, stopping briefly at the door. "Thanks for the flowers, Nate."
He looked surprised—pleased, almost. "Anytime, sis."
As Sophia stepped back into the corridor, the professional mask slid seamlessly over her features again. But for a moment, her grip on the tablet was looser, her stride a little lighter.