Room 417

Tara adjusted the strap of her ID badge as she stepped out of the nurses’ station, the familiar weight of exhaustion already settling into her bones even though her shift was far from over. The hospital was alive in its usual way monitors beeping in erratic rhythms, IV poles rolling past, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. It was controlled chaos, and somehow, she thrived in it.

She glanced down at the patient list on her tablet, scrolling slowly, mentally preparing herself for what lay ahead.

Then she saw the name.

Room 417, Mr. Bernard Brownmellow. Her shoulders tightened instantly. Every nurse in the hospital knew him, because he was a pain in the ass.

If there was one patient Tara never looked forward to during her rounds, it was Bernard Brownmellow. Not because he was beyond help, but because he carried his pain like a sharpened blade, lashing out at anyone who came too close. Nurses rotated frequently when assigned to him, but Tara had stuck it out longer than most. Maybe because she understood something the others didn’t.

Mr. Brownmellow wasn’t just grumpy. He was grieving.

Sixty-eight years old, recently widowed, he had suffered a mild ischemic stroke less than a year after losing his wife. The stroke left him with vascular cognitive impairment, a form of memory loss that caused confusion, emotional instability, and frequent lapses in short-term recall. Some days he remembered everything clearly. Other days, he barely recognized where he was or why.

Add chronic hypertension, neuropathic pain, and the quiet rage of a man who felt his life had been stolen from him, and Tara understood why every interaction felt like walking into a storm.

She stopped outside his door, closed her eyes briefly, and inhaled. WmHe’s not attacking you, she reminded herself. He’s hurting.

She knocked once and pushed the door open.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” Mr. Brownmellow snapped from the bed, his voice rough and sharp. “I thought maybe I’d have to die before someone bothered to check on me.”

Tara stepped inside calmly, shutting the door behind her. “Good morning, Mr. Brownmellow,” she said evenly. “How are you feeling today?”

“How does it look like I’m feeling?” he barked. “My body hurts. My head hurts. I can’t see straight half the time. And nobody listens.”

She moved closer to the bedside, setting her tablet down on the table. “I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to check your vitals, and then we’ll talk about your pain. Is that okay?”

He scoffed loudly. “Do I have a choice? Aren’t you paid to do your job? Or are you asking because you don’t know what you’re doing?”

Tara didn’t flinch. She reached for the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it gently around his arm. “I ask because your comfort matters,” she replied. “Not because I’m unsure.”

The machine whirred softly as it inflated.

“You people always say that,” he muttered. “Smiling like saints while poking holes in me.”

“I’ll be gentle,” she said. “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

He hissed when the cuff constricted. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, loosening it slightly. “Almost done.”

She noted the reading, higher than it should be and made a mental note to flag it for the attending physician. She slipped the pulse oximeter onto his finger next, watching the numbers stabilize, then checked his temperature.

When she pressed the stethoscope to his chest, she listened carefully heart rhythm steady but strained, breathing shallow today. Another concern.

“You look tired,” he said suddenly, eyes narrowing as if truly seeing her for the first time.

She stiffened. “Long shift.”

He smirked. “What, did your baby daddy leave you too stressed to focus?”

Her fingers paused.

“I don’t have a baby daddy,” she said calmly.

“Well, you’ve got babies,” he shot back. “I see the pictures when you think no one’s watching.”

She almost laughed, but she knew that would hurt his feelings. Sometimes she feels like he's deliberately trying to piss the nurses off but good thing she's grown a thick skin and understands all his antics.

“My personal life isn’t part of your treatment plan,” she said quietly. “What is important is that your pain is worsening. I’m going to speak with the doctor about adjusting your medication.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “Do whatever you want, it's not like I'm getting better.”

She administered his prescribed analgesic injection, checked his IV line, and made sure his call button was within reach. Before leaving, she paused.

“I know you’re angry,” she said softly. “And I know you miss your wife. But I’m here to help you even when it doesn’t feel like it. I've had a long shift, my legs hurt and I'm exhausted but guess what, I'm standing here, making sure you're fine.”

For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone, she left the room quietly, closing the door behind her.

The hallway felt cooler. Tara exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders.

“Rough patient?” a warm voice asked.

She looked up and there he was. Dr. Davy.

Tall, impeccably dressed in his white coat, dark hair neatly styled, smile easy and disarming. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that made him stand out in every room he stepped in. The kind of man who made nurses whisper and patients suddenly feel better just by walking into the room.

“Hey, Tara,” he said, his eyes softening when he saw her. “You don’t look okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically. “Just tired.”

“I'm so sorry, is there anything I can do to maybe help you feel better?”

“Yes,” she answered, trying to crack her neck.

“Go ahead.”

“I'll feel better if you just leave me alone.”

He studied her. “I really wish I could, but that's not possible. I asked you out. Lunch. Dinner. You never gave me a reply.”

She blinked. “Oh. I’ve been busy.”

“We’re all busy,” he said gently. “But I’d make time for you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have the energy for that.”

“Why are you pushing me away?” he asked. “Do you have a boyfriend or any man in your life right now?”

“No,” she said firmly. “And I don’t want one.”

His smile didn’t fade. “Then tell me what you want.”

“I want peace,” she said quietly. “And right now, this is all I can handle.”

He nodded, respectful. “If you ever change your mind, I’ll be right here.”

She walked away, feeling his gaze linger.

Dr. Davy was everything women dreamed of. He was kind, soft spoken, intentional and rich.

And Tara wasn’t dreaming. She couldn't care less what everyone thinks. She doesn't want anything to do with any man and she doesn't want kids. Not now, not ever.