The hospital parking lot was almost empty, which made sense considering it was well past midnight.
The Beetle rattled slightly as Hawk pulled into a parking spot near the emergency entrance. The engine clicked softly once he shut it off, and for a moment, neither of us moved. The fluorescent lights from the ER entrance washed the parking lot in pale white, casting long shadows across the asphalt.
Hawk glanced over at me, his expression unreadable. “Come on.”
I pushed the door open and stepped out, the cool night air hitting my face immediately. As I shifted my arm wrong, pain shot up my wrist again.
Okay. Maybe this hospital thing had been the right call. Maybe.
Hawk was already walking around the front of the car by the time I closed the door. The man moved fast for someone his size, and I struggled to keep up with his long strides.
He stopped beside me, his eyes dropping instantly to my wrist as if he expected it to have somehow gotten worse in the thirty seconds since we parked. “You good to walk?” he asked.
“I think I can manage twenty feet,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Twenty feet,” he muttered, as if weighing the distance with skepticism. Then he jerked his chin toward the entrance. “Move.”
The automatic doors slid open as we walked inside, a rush of cool air greeting us.
The ER waiting room was quiet. A few people sat scattered in the chairs—an older man with his ankle propped on a stool, a tired-looking mom rocking a baby, and a teenager holding an ice pack against his nose like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The receptionist looked up when we approached the desk. Her eyes landed on Hawk first, then widened slightly.
Which… fair. The man looked like six feet of bad decisions and trouble standing under hospital lighting.
“What seems to be the problem tonight?” she asked.
“I fell,” I said, the lie rolling off my tongue easily. Casual. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hawk’s head turn slightly toward me—a quick glance. Sharp. Surprised. But he didn’t say anything.
The receptionist nodded and began typing. “And when did this happen?”
“About an hour ago,” Hawk answered smoothly, his voice steady.
Her fingers continued tapping across the keyboard, focused and efficient. “Did you hit your head?”
“No,” Hawk said, his tone clipped.
“Any dizziness?”
“No.”
Her eyes flicked between us briefly, assessing the dynamic. “You’re her…?”
“Boyfriend.” The word came out without hesitation, as if he’d rehearsed it.
I didn’t even bother correcting him this time.
The receptionist handed me a clipboard. “Fill this out, and we’ll get you checked in.”
I took the pen awkwardly with my left hand. Writing with my non-dominant hand was about as graceful as you’d expect, with letters that looked more like squiggles than words.
Halfway through the paperwork, I realized something. Hawk hadn’t sat down. He was standing directly behind my chair, not pacing, not wandering—just standing there. Watching. Like a very large, leather-clad bodyguard.
I glanced back at him. “You can sit, you know.”
“I’m fine.”
