I don’t know him well. That fact should matter more than it does. What I do know is limited but specific. He’s direct. He doesn’t waste words. He watches more than he reveals. At dinner, he asked questions that mattered and left others alone, as if he were gathering information without forcing me to offer it. When I tested boundaries, he noticed. When I pushed, he didn’t pull back or close the distance, only modified his approach. He escorted me home when I mentioned the time, without trying to extend the evening or extract more than I was ready to give.
I respect that more than I want to admit.
I finish the water and set the glass in the sink, then stand there breathing slowly until my pulse begins to settle into something manageable. The dream lingers, vivid enough that I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hands, and the awareness of his body crowding mine.
I don’t analyze the dream further. That would be a mistake. Instead, I turn back toward the bedroom and start my morning routine earlier than planned, grateful for the familiar sequence of steps that require no emotion. Shower. Scrubs. Hair braided tightly and pinned into place. Minimal makeup. Function over reflection.
By the time I leave the apartment, the sky has begun to lighten, the deep blue at the horizon thinning toward gray. The air outside is cold enough to wake me fully as I lock the door behind me. I walk to my car on autopilot, my focus slipping despite my effort to keep it where it belongs.
Charlotte Memorial rises ahead of me as it always does, with a familiarity that rarely surprises me. The parking garage hums with early arrivals, tires echoing against the cement, and footsteps moving in consistent patterns. I clip on my badge and enter through the staff doors, antiseptic and coffee meeting me at once.
Inside, everything makes sense again. Scrubs brush against my legs. Charts line up in neat stacks. The low thrum of monitors and overhead announcements settles my nerves in a way nothing else can. Trauma bays stand ready. This isn’t calm, but it’s contained.
For several hours, the world narrows to patient care. I move from bed to bed, reviewing scans, adjusting orders, and answering questions. My hands work without hesitation, my voice finding its professional cadence easily. A resident trails me, scribbling notes, his questions practical and expected. Nurses pass updates as they move, each exchange brief and functional.
This is where I’m most myself.
The memory of Kiren dulls under the rhythm of work, receding just enough that I can pretend last night didn’t matter. That the dream was simply my body processing stress andnovelty. That attraction doesn’t mean vulnerability. By mid-morning, I almost believe it.
The illusion holds until I reach the locker room. I open my locker expecting the same orderly contents I always find. Shoes lined up. Bag hanging from its hook. White coat folded carefully. The folded paper resting on top doesn’t belong.
I freeze, my fingers still wrapped around the locker door, my eyes locked on the note as if it might move if I look away. It’s placed neatly, centered, not tucked or hidden. My pulse jumps hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
The paper is plain, free of letterhead or smudges. The fold is crisp and careful. I lift it and unfold it slowly, aware of my surroundings, voices echoing down the hall, and lockers opening and closing around me.
The message is brief, a single sentence that says more than it explains. It doesn’t ask or warn. It states. The handwriting is careful, almost polite, each letter formed with intention, and that detail rattles me more than anything careless would have.
I read it once. Then again.
You were observed doing exactly what you do best. We are still watching.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t let it show on my face. I fold the paper back along the original crease and slide it into the pocket of my scrub pants, prioritizing containment over response. Whatever this is, it doesn’t deserve an immediate reaction. Patients still need me.
I change, hang my coat, and close the locker like nothing has happened. When I turn back toward the hall, nothing about my posture or pace draws attention. But the sense of being watched follows me out of the room, clinging to me like static I can’t shake. Whatever world Kiren Sovarin belongs to may still feel separate from mine. But the distance between them is no longer as wide as I want it to be.
The rest of the shift unfolds the way storms do when you’re already standing in the rain. Relentless, noisy, and indifferent to personal timing. I move from trauma bay to consult to follow-up without pause, my attention locked onto injuries and outcomes rather than the paper folded against my hip. I don’t touch it again. I know exactly where it is, and for now, that’s enough.
A multi-vehicle collision comes in just before noon, metal folded around bodies in ways that make my chest ache. I take the lead without discussion, my voice calm as I assign roles and direct movement. Hands respond. Equipment appears. Blood pressure stabilizes. A chest tube slides into place under my guidance. The patient coughs and swears, then breathes easier, and relief moves through the room like a collective exhale.
I welcome the distraction. In the brief moments between cases, when I’m washing my hands or updating charts, my focus circles back to the note despite my effort to set it aside. Not the words themselves, the implication behind them. The fact that someone knew exactly how to get my attention.
Lila corners me near the supply room after lunch, her expression tight with concern she isn’t bothering to hide.
“You’re too quiet,” she remarks, leaning one shoulder against the wall as she watches me sign off on a chart.
“I’m working,” I mumble, sliding the folder into the rack and reaching for the next one.
She studies me for a long second, then straightens. “You always work. This is different.”
I meet her eyes briefly, considering how much to tell her. “I found a note in my locker.”
Her brows pull together immediately. “What kind of note?”
“No name,” I answer, “but enough to suggest someone is watching me without explanation.”
Her posture straightens, concern turning into alert. “You reported it?”
I shake my head once. “Not yet.”
