Chapter Four

I walked.

Right past the side entrance. Past the staff parking lot, where my car waited in the corner like it knew I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t get inside it yet—not after what had just happened. Not after what I’d just felt.

The imprint of his hand was gone, but the memory of it still clung to mine. The way his fingers reached for me in the chaos. The steadiness in his eyes. The way he held on, even as everything around him blurred and buckled.

Like he still had something left to do.

Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Neither was I.

And that terrified me more than anything.

I came here to quit. To end something. To unburden myself of the weight I thought this place had become. But instead, I walked straight into it—into the blood, the urgency, the noise. And the worst part? I didn’t freeze. I didn’t falter.

I came to quit. To end something. To lay down the weight I thought this place had become. But instead, I walked straight into it—into the blood, the urgency, the noise. And the worst part?

I didn’t freeze. I didn’t falter.

I belonged to it. Still.

By the time the adrenaline wore off, I realized I couldn’t keep walking in circles. My hands had stopped shaking, but my chest hadn’t settled. I drove home slowly, headlights cutting through quiet streets, my thoughts louder than the engine.

When I reached the house, the lights were off. A stillness had settled across the windows like the world inside had long gone to sleep without me.

I let myself in quietly. No one stirred.

In the kitchen, a note sat folded near a covered plate.

Gabby, eat something.

–Maya.

No hearts. No smiley faces. But she left food. Her way of reaching out.

I stood there a moment longer, hands braced on the counter, the envelope with my resignation letter still folded inside my pocket. I didn’t even take it out.

Later, in my room, I lay down on the edge of the bed and stared at the ceiling. The weight of the day pressed deep into my chest. I hadn’t taken anything—not last night, not today. The ache behind my eyes was thick now. Withdrawal clawed its way up my spine, made my skin buzz, and my throat tighten.

But I made it through.

When sleep finally came, it wasn’t peaceful. But it was real. Raw. And it was mine.

I went back the next morning.

No resignation letter in hand this time. Just a quiet, pressing pull in my chest that I didn’t bother naming. Curiosity, maybe. Or something closer to unfinished business.

Isaac.

That was all I remembered—his first name, his blood soaking through the sheets, and the way he’d looked at me like he wasn’t used to feeling powerless.

I hadn’t Googled him. Hadn’t asked questions. Didn’t need to. There was something about him, even on the stretcher, that radiated presence. Command. Like the world still bent around him, even in pain.

He’d survived. I knew that much. Heard it in passing—VIP patient stable, guarded room, high clearance. The kind of man you didn’t talk about unless you were asked. The kind of man who came with silence and security.

I wasn’t scheduled for the ICU. Wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near that floor. But I drifted, quiet and intentional, until I found myself outside his room again.

Room 304.

I kept my distance. Just enough to see the window in the door. Just enough to know he was awake.

He was propped up, IV still taped to his arm, pale but present. Eyes open. Alert. No machines screaming, no wires tangled across his chest.

Alive.

My breath caught before I could stop it. I leaned slightly, just to see him one second longer. One second too long.

His head turned—sharply, deliberately. His eyes met the window.

And for one suspended heartbeat, I was certain he saw me.

I backed away fast, heart stuttering. The corridor felt too narrow. The walls are too close. I hadn’t come here to be seen.

I just wanted to see him. To confirm he wasn’t a dream wrapped in trauma and adrenaline.

I stepped into the nearest break room and gripped the edge of the counter. My palms were sweating.

What was I doing?

I wasn’t some rookie nurse who caught feelings during a trauma rush. I knew better. I’d been around long enough to know the difference between adrenaline and attachment. Between reaction and reality.

And yet, I couldn’t stop the way my chest was tightening. Not with panic. Not quite with longing. Something stranger. A pull.

Maybe it was just everything catching up with me—one sleepless night, a war zone in my chest from skipping the pills, the memory of blood on my hands. Maybe I was still cracked open from the day before.

Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that someone else’s life had stirred something in me. Something I’d worked hard to shut off.

I poured coffee just to have something to do. I didn’t drink it. Just held the cup in both hands like it could anchor me.

I wasn’t curious about him. Not really. I didn’t care who he was outside of that ER.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

But I could still see his face. Still feel the moment our hands touched—tight, desperate, alive.

Like he wasn’t used to needing anyone. Like he hated it.

I’d already slipped back into routine. Finding charts to review, patients who didn’t make my stomach twist.

But fate—or maybe just poor timing—had other plans.

“Gabriella, could you check on Mr. Langton?” one of the senior nurses called from across the desk, handing me a chart I didn’t ask for. “He’s requesting a nurse. Said he’d rather not deal with anyone new.”

I paused. “Mr… Langton?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “The VIP patient.”

So, that was his last name…

I stared down at the file in my hands. Isaac Langton. It looked strange in ink—too formal, too far removed from the man whose blood had stained my t-shirt less than twenty-four hours ago.

I told myself I could just do the check-in and leave. No emotion. No meaning. Just a nurse doing her job.

But my pulse had other plans.

I took a breath and walked toward his room.

The VIP rooms were quieter, tucked behind the glass and privacy of money and status. I knocked once, softly, unsure, and stepped in without waiting. The lights were dimmed, his monitors humming steadily. A low beep here, a pulse of green there.

He was awake.

Isaac Langton turned his head slowly, the movement tight with pain, but his eyes found mine with too much ease. Too much clarity.

“Well,” he said, voice rough but still threaded with a lazy confidence, “I was starting to think I imagined you.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“In the hallway. This morning. You were staring through the glass like you were debating a prison break.”

My heart kicked up. I folded the chart tighter in my hands. “You were barely conscious yesterday. And you were resting when I passed by. You probably saw someone else.”

His smile was faint but undeniably smug. “You’re right. Probably just another woman in scrubs hovering like she’d seen a ghost.”

I didn’t respond. I could n’t—not without betraying the heat rising in my face. He shifted slightly in bed, just enough to wince, and for a second, the sarcasm dropped from his features.

I stepped forward. “Don’t do that. You’ve still got abdominal trauma and shrapnel sites healing. You move wrong and you’ll tear the stitches.”

“Noted,” he murmured, eyes never leaving mine.

I busied myself checking his IV bag, even though I’d seen it was fine when I walked in. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” he said. Then, after a beat: “You always check in with that much attitude, or am I just special?”

I finally looked back at him. He was pale, bandaged, clearly not used to lying still. But there was humor in his expression. Mischief, almost. Like he was testing me—pushing to see what would make me flinch.

“You’re not special,” I said flatly.

He grinned. “Now I know I imagined you holding my hand.”

I froze. The clipboard in my hand felt heavier. “You were in shock,” I said. “That doesn’t count.”

“No,” he said, softer now. “That felt real.”

I hated how that got under my skin.

This wasn’t the job I signed up for today. I didn’t come back here to flirt or feel or unravel. I came to work. To bury myself in routine and pretend the night before hadn’t left its fingerprints on me.