He chuckles. “Relax. Just saying, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a biker girl.”
Something hot flashes in my chest. “I’m not anything,” I state evenly. “And my personal life isn’t your concern.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, no judgment. Just surprised.”
The thing about comments like that is how easy they are to dismiss individually, and how heavy they get when you stack them up.
A look here. A smirk there. A muttered slander when he thinks I can’t hear. Comments about slumming it, trash, and more.
He never says anything overt. Never anything I could take to HR without sounding dramatic or vindictive. He’s careful like that. He’s a doctor with tenure and friends in administration. He knows exactly how far he can push.
I swallow it. Because I have to. Because my grandfather’s medication costs more than my pride. Because the world is not kind to women who make noise unless they’re bleeding, and even then it’s questionable if a woman can garner the right kind of attention.
By the end of week three, my patience is threadbare. We’re at the nurses’ station when he leans against the counter, coffee in hand, eyes following me like he owns the space.
“Tell me something,” he starts. “Does your biker boyfriend still roar in on his Harley to scare off the bad guys?”
I freeze. My fingers tighten around the chart. “He’s not my boyfriend,” the words spill out before I stop them.
Lucas smiles like he’s won something. “So I was right.”
I look at him then. Really look. “You don’t know anything about me,” I state. “And you don’t get to talk about my life like it’s entertainment. What I am to Miles and what he is to me, isn’t your business.”
His eyes flick briefly, just a crack of irritation. “Touchy.”
“Professional,” I correct.
He laughs under his breath. “Whatever you say. Just don’t get too attached to trash like that. Guys like him don’t stick around.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Not because they’re cruel. Because they echo a fear I’ve been trying not to name. Everyone close to me always seems to leave or be taken from me. I turn away before he can see the anger on my face. Before I do something stupid. Before I remind him, loudly and publicly, that he’s standing in a hospital surrounded by witnesses.
I finish my shift on autopilot, hands steady even when my chest feels tight. When the clock finally frees me, relief crashes over me so hard I almost sway.
Home. I need home.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, porch light flicking on automatically. The night is warm, heavy with summer air, grasshoppers buzzing loud enough to drown out my thoughts if I let them.
Inside, I find my grandfather restless. The caregiver looks apologetic and tired. “He’s been more confused tonight,” she says softly. “Tried to get up twice. And he’s not walked in over a year.”
I nod, forcing calm. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”
She leaves with a sympathetic look that makes my throat tighten. I check his oxygen, blood pressure, blood sugar, basically all the things that may be adding to his disorientation. Adjust pillows. Speak softly as I help him settle back into the bed.
“Danae?” he questions, eyes unfocused.
“It’s me,” I say gently. “You’re home.”
He frowns. “I need to go.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Anywhere,” he mutters. “I don’t belong here.”
The words cut deep because I know he means his body, not the house. I sit beside him and take his hand, rubbing slow circles the way that calms us both.
“You’re safe,” I say. “You’re with me.”
His grip tightens suddenly, surprising me with its strength. “Don’t leave,” he says, panic sharp in his voice.
