“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, as I open the fridge, but when I turn around, he isn't there. “Vic?” I call out. The door to my bedroom is open, and when I walk in, I already know what he is going to see.
He stands there, looking around at all the pictures I have of us that cover every inch of my bedroom. I took every photo and placed them in frames. All the others are displayed on a wall. My favorite ones are on a desk.
“Vic,” I say, but this time feeling self-conscious. What if I went overboard and he thinks I’m a stalker? I mean, clearly I am, but I am just as infatuated with him as he was with me, but I never showed it. “Vic,” I say again, and this time he turns abruptly, staring at me, but it's not disgust or fear I see in his eyes. It’s desire. He grabs his cock and rubs it through his pants.
“Get on the bed, baby, and take your clothes off. I need to fuck you now,” he growls, throwing his shirt on the floor and kicking off his shoes. I don’t waste another moment, I discard my clothes.
“First, we shower, Vic.” He chuckles. “I’m not letting you fuck me with all these hospital germs on me.” He prowls toward me, and I shriek playfully, running for the shower. I love it when he chases me. I walk to the shower, quickly turn it on, and let the hot water run for a bit. It takes a while for it to heat, but as he comes through the doorway, he’s there looking at me with a lust-filled stare. I lick my lips, my mouth watering at the chance to get him into my mouth. I walk backwards as I hit the lip of the shower and step in.
He follows suit, and before I can turn around, he pins me to the tile. He grabs my hair and pulls me back, licking up the side of my neck and tugging me back further before he plunges his tongue into my mouth. He’s merciless, as his grip tightens on my hair. His thick erection nudges my back, and my pussy weeps at the thought of being filled. I feel that hollow ache between my legs that can only be satiated by him. He turns me around and drops down on his knees, throwing one leg over his shoulder as he presses the other against my abdomen, holding me in place as the other spreads me open, as he licks through my folds over and over again. He stops, circling his tongue around the little bud as he sucks on it, and I cry out. He does it a few more times, and my legs start to shake. It’s when he scrapes his teeth before flicking it repeatedly, then bringing it into his mouth once again, that I fall over the edge, crying out. When he stands to his full height, he lifts me easily and brings my legs around his waist. He lines himself up and pushes into me. My head falls back. And when he fucks me against that shower wall, there is nothing gentle about it. He holds my hips, pinning them in place as my back moves up and down against the wet tiled wall. As he screams his release, Ifall once again to the sound of him calling my name. I look up at him through hooded lashes. I kiss his face, and when he opens his eyes to meet mine. He smiles.
“I couldn’t help it, baby. The crazy, stalker-like pictures of me all over the place made me feel feral. I wanted to fuck you so bad and couldn’t wait. You have no idea how turned on I was, and am now, just thinking about it.” His cock hardens against my entrance. “You ready for round two?”
“Yes, please.”
THIRTY-FOUR
VIC
Three days. That’s how long we’ve been holding our breath, waiting to see if Sonya will pull through or slip through this world entirely. Three long days that I’ve been holding onto this guilt, the ache in my chest that whispers,Vic, you could have done more.
The neurosurgeon warned that the days after the operation would decide everything, though it feels like the verdict has already been served. Seizure after seizure rips through her fragile body, and every time I get the call, every time I see her convulse, I’m pulled back to my own mother, who never made it this far. Despite all my years as a surgeon, the helplessness feels the same, as though time has collapsed into one long continuous wound that festers slowly. And I hate myself for it. For feeling this weak, and for the silence that ensues. Some part of me is already grieving, because the outcome is bleak, and miracles aren’t wasted on people like us. We are the victims. The forgotten. The ones society fails to help, unless we take the reins and choose our own fate.
I told Dani everything about Sonya and her daughter, Rose—how I met them, and how I tried to help in those little ways that feel like drops of rain on a roaring wildfire. She admitted thatshe had seen me that day at the café, the day that I bolted out of there thinking I’d imagined her face in the crowd. She confirmed it was real.
I told her about the little girl. How frightened she was. How she clung to her mother with the desperate hope of a new life away from her father, just to have that future ripped away from her. And now Rose’s worst fears have come to fruition. There are no comforting words to give, no gentle lies to ease the truth. Her nightmare is here, unfolding in the worst possible way, and she's living it with wide, dry eyes that have seen more than a child of her age should. The stark reality is that she may lose her mom. The only comfort is that she wasn’t there when it happened. Because if she had been, it could’ve been her tiny broken body on that stretcher, or worse. And that makes me murderous.
I walk into the ICU to check on Sonya. The nurse informs me that her blood pressure began to climb yesterday. They’re giving her medication to keep it under control. Through the glass, I see Dani, Rose, and another woman. The woman’s shoulder shakes as she’s racked with sobs, though she keeps nodding at what Dani is telling her. But Rose sits there frozen, staring at the wall as if nothing in this mortal realm can touch her. Not her father’s fists, nor the grief spilling out of her.
Her small hand clutches a stuffed toy, worn thin from being squeezed too tightly for too long. Perhaps her only source of solace. In the other, she grips the card I gave her that morning in the café. The one that contains my phone number on it in case of an emergency, or if she should need anything at all. She rubs the edge with her thumb and forefinger, over and over, as if the paper itself could keep her safe. A lifeline she refuses to call, but can’t let go of.
As I step closer, Rose’s head turns toward me. The moment her eyes find mine, they widen, and she bolts upright out of thechair. Dani and the woman turn, startled, but Rose is already running toward me.
“Vic!” Her voice cracks as she collides with me, throwing her arms around my legs. I freeze for half a second before dropping down to her level. She clings to me with a desperation that makes my chest ache, as her small body trembles against mine. “Please,” she sobs, her arms sliding around my neck now. She holds on tight, as if I, too, will vanish, leaving her alone. “Please! Can I see my mom?” Her tears stream freely down her cheeks, soaking into my collar, as I hold her tight, already knowing that there is only one answer. I tighten my arms around her, my voice rough when I finally reply.
I pull Rose back gently, my hands steady on her small shoulders. I force myself to nod, to keep my voice even despite the surge of emotions I'm trying so hard to suppress. “Of course. Let me see what I can do, okay, Rose?” She sniffles, hiccups breaking through her sobs, as she tries to channel a bravery that no child her age should have to. When I rise to my feet, she loosens her hold, watching me with wet lashes that cling to unshed tears. Behind us, Dani leans toward the woman in the room, murmuring. Her voice is a balm, soothing still, even as grief hovers around us. The woman nods, clutching a tissue, and Dani slips out, falling into step beside me. Together, we push through the ICU lockdown doors, where the world shifts into a cacophony of beeping monitors, hushed voices, and the antiseptic smells of the critically ill. Dani stays close, a solid presence by my side. Her silent steps are honed into every pulse of tension in the air as we pass curtained bays and machines that beep with hope and a promise of tomorrow.
“Vic,” Dani says softly, though her words strike me with precision. “Things are looking worse. Her sister is requesting comfort measures only. She could die soon, and we need to make sure Rose has a chance to say goodbye. That they both do.”
The recycled air suddenly feels heavier, pressing in like a weight on my chest. Her words land with a punch to the gut, and for a second, I can’t move. I can’t even think. All I hear are Rose’s words, looping like a broken record in my head. “Can I see my mom? Can I see my mom?” I look over at Dani, who is already speaking with the ICU nurse to make it happen.
“She can see her?” Rose’s aunt asks, her voice shaking, yet hopeful.
I nod once. “The nurse said she needs five minutes. I’ll take her in myself.” Dani dips her head, her gaze steady on me, and in the depths of her eyes, I catch it. The quiet understanding that this is more than medicine or protocol. It’s a mercy, one that I never had the chance to receive. When I step back into the waiting room, Rose looks up at me, clutching her rabbit tightly. Her aunt straightens in her chair, her posture rigid with worry.
She extends her hand, her grip firm despite the tremor in her fingers. “I’m Julia.”
“I’m Dr. Flores,” I reply before offering her informalities. “But you can call me Vic. I knew Sonya and Rose outside of here. I volunteered at the soup kitchen where they sometimes came.” I pause, stopping on the words that don’t sound fake. “And I was also part of the trauma team that received the call when she was brought in.”
Julia studies me for a long, measured beat before speaking. Her eyes sharpen, determining whether to trust me or not. Finally, she leans in, her voice dropping low, “I need to talk to you for a minute. In private.” She nods. Dani reads the room instantly. She calls Rose over, keeping her close by her side, but out of earshot. Her hand rests gently on the girl’s shoulder, steadying her as if to remind her that she’s safe, while I prepare myself for whatever truth Julia is braced to speak.
When Julia sees that Rose is safely out of earshot, her shoulders sag. She exhales, dragging her hand down her face as though trying to wipe away the years of exhaustion.
“Look,” she begins, her voice full of defeat. “I don’t know how much you know about her husband—David, Rose’s father.”
“Just the basics,” I answer with a shrug, though the words are a bitter pill to swallow. “He’s abusive. Rose told me that she was terrified her mother would go back to him. That he might hurt them both.”
Julia's lips press tight. Her lips worry the corner of her mouth before she nods. “Then you understand,” she whispers. Her gaze flicks toward Rose, then back to me. Pleading. “You understand why she can never go back to him?”
