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The storage cupboard smells like antiseptic and cardboard. It’s too small for a grown man to fall apart in, but that hasn’t stopped Langdon from trying.
Pathetic.
He’s wedged himself between a stack of IV fluid boxes and the back wall, knees pulled up, one hand pressed hard against his mouth like it can physically hold everything in. The fluorescent light overhead flickers intermittently—just enough to make the shadows jump.
He stares at his hands.
They’re steady.
That’s the worst part.
After everything—rehab, the time away, the scrutiny, the quiet looks from staff who know—his hands are still steady. He can still place a chest tube in one shot. Still intubate with ease. Still work through a crashing patient faster than most.
And yet—
What if I can’t do this anymore?
The thought loops. Insistent. Parasitic.
What if I shouldn’t?
The door slams open.
He blinks.
Of course it’s her. His fucking shadow. His nightmare. (His saviour?).
“Well, this is new,” says Santos flatly. “Didn’t realise we were turning North’s storage room into a crying room.”
Langdon flinches, hand dropping. “I’m not—”
“Stop lying.” Firm. Steady.
She steps inside, kicking the door shut behind her with a dull thud. Now it’s just the two of them, too close, air too thin.
Langdon scoffs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” Santos says, unimpressed. “You look great. Really selling it.”
Silence presses in. He looks away first.
“Just needed a minute,” he mutters. “Long shift.”
“Uh-huh.”
She leans back against the shelves, arms crossed, watching him in a way that makes his skin itch. Not concerned. Not gentle. Evaluating.
“You’re in my spot, by the way,” she finally says.
He blinks. “Your—what?”
“Storage cupboard. Breakdown central. Bit rude, honestly.”
Despite himself, he huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Didn’t realise there was a booking system.”
“There is,” she says. “You just skipped the queue.”
Another beat.
Langdon exhales slowly, tension leaking out of him in pieces. “Look, if you’re here to—what—report me for taking five minutes—”
“Whatever. Like I care about that.”
Her voice cuts sharper now.
“I care that you’re sitting there acting like you suddenly forgot how to be a doctor.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t say that.”
She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t have to.”
She pushes off the shelf, taking a step closer. Not aggressive—just… deliberate.
“If anyone gets to question whether they’re a good doctor,” she continues, quieter but more dangerous, “it’s me.”
That lands.
He frowns. Fuck.
“Santos—”
“No, seriously.” A humourless laugh escapes her. “Because last I checked, you made damn sure I questioned it.”
He freezes.
Right. That.
First day. The testing. The shouting. The words he can’t take back. The look on her face when he said them.
“I—” He stops. Starts again. “I apologised.”
“Yeah,” she says. “You did.”
The way she says it makes it very clear how little that means.
Which—fair. It hadn’t exactly been the best timing. And yeah, maybe he was mostly just working through the steps.
Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
“You’re lying to yourself,” she says.
Langdon’s head snaps up. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not—”
“Still doing it.”
Her eyes are locked on his now, unflinching.
“The medicine was never your problem,” she goes on. “You were always a good doctor. Annoyingly.”
He lets out a short, incredulous breath. “Wow, thanks.”
“I’m not complimenting you,” she shoots back. “I’m saying you’re focusing on the wrong thing.”
She gestures vaguely at him.
“This whole”—she waves a hand—“‘what if I can’t do this anymore’ pity party? That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?” he challenges, more defensive than he means to sound.
Her jaw tightens.
“You’re lying about what you actually did.”
That hits harder than anything else.
He stiffens. “I know what I did.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because from where I’m standing,” she says, voice low and cutting, “it sounds a lot like you’ve decided it was this… unfortunate thing that happened to you.”
“That’s not—”
“You stole drugs,” she interrupts, not raising her voice, which somehow makes it worse. “You stole medication from a vial and replaced it with, what, saline?” She raises an eyebrow at him accusingly.
“You overdosed patients because the right dose didn’t work—because you stole it. And no one else knew.”
Their eyes lock, “how many patients were treated wrong because of you?”
“How many could’ve died?”
“…How many did?”
He recoils slightly, like she’s physically struck him.
“You blew up your career. And now you keep talking about everything you’ve ‘been through’ like it wasn’t a direct consequence of your own choices.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” Her head tilts.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t replay it—”
“Then stop pretending it happened to you.”
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Until you actually admit that to yourself,” she continues, relentless. “Like really admit it—not the rehearsed version, not the one you say in therapy because it sounds good—then yeah. You’re gonna keep having breakdowns in storage rooms, questioning if you can do the job.”
She folds her arms again.
“Because some part of your brain knows the truth. And it’s trying to reconcile that with whatever story you’re telling yourself now.”
The room feels even smaller.
Both occupants take deep shaky breaths as her words land.
Finally, Langdon runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Wow,” he mutters. “Thanks, Dr Phil.”
“Anytime.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Mm.”
She shrugs, unbothered.
“Whatever,” she adds. “You’re not the only one who’d like to rewrite the past into something more… palatable.”
That makes him look up again.
Something in her expression has shifted. Not softer—just… heavier.
“I’m just saying,” she goes on, quieter now, “it doesn’t work.”
A beat.
“Trust me. I’ve been trying for over a decade. Turns out your brain doesn’t forget what you survived. It just…waits.”
There it is.
Not a full confession. Not even close.
But enough.
Langdon swallows. “That… sucks.”
She snorts. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Well,” she says flatly, “life sucks.”
He huffs out a breath, the tension easing just a fraction. “You’re really not doing a great job of cheering me up.”
“Good,” she shoots back immediately. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“…Yeah,” he concedes. “That tracks.”
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less suffocating.
Santos pushes off the wall, moving toward the door.
She pauses.
“Look,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes this time. “I still don’t trust you. You haven’t exactly given me a reason to.”
Fair.
“But Mel likes you,” she continues, like it physically pains her to admit it. “So apparently you’ve got some redeeming qualities.” She fake vomits for emphasis. “Buried way down in there.”
Langdon almost smiles.
“Deep,” he agrees.
“Like, geological layers,” she adds.
“Ooof. Brutal.”
She shrugs.
“So,” she finishes, hand on the door, “free advice—talk to your therapist. And I mean actually talk. Not the curated version.”
She glances back at him.
“It’s not gonna magically fix everything. But it might… help.”
Langdon studies her for a moment.
Then, quietly—
“Did you take your own advice?”
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Can’t you tell? I’m, like, the most mentally sound person in the Pitt.”
He lets out a small laugh.
But she doesn’t entirely deflect this time.
A beat passes.
“Yeah,” she admits, grudgingly. “I guess it helped. With some things.”
That’s as much as he’s getting.
She opens the door, bright corridor light spilling in again.
“Now get out of my cupboard,” she adds. “I might need it later.”
And then she’s gone.
Langdon stays there for a second longer, staring at the spot where she stood.
His hands are steady.
And he laughs, because for the first time all shift, he can breathe.
God help him, did he just take advice from Santos.