Lila notices before I can look away.
“Well,” she murmurs, angling her body closer to mine while keeping her eyes on the bar. “That’s not your average donor.”
I force a quiet laugh. “You're projecting.”
“Please,” she replies, finally turning her head. She glances toward him, then back to me, her lips curving with interest. “That man is tracking you like he's afraid you might vanish if he blinks.”
I adjust my grip on the glass, my hand suddenly too light and fingers lacking their usual certainty. “He's probably just curious.”
Lila hums, unconvinced. “That isnotcuriosity. That’s the intimidating billionaire type who thinks he owns the room and is deciding whether he wants to own you too.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I shake my head. “You've had too much champagne.”
“And you're avoiding looking at him again,” she counters gently.
I glance down at my drink, watching the bubbles cling to the glass. Unease gathers low in my abdomen. “It's nothing.”
But even as I tell myself that, donors approach. A man with silver hair offers congratulations on the speech, his tone rehearsed but enthusiastic. A woman beside him asks about trauma response research with what sounds like genuine interest. I answer smoothly, my voice finding a calm register. I adjust my posture and let my expression move into attentive warmth.
Still, my awareness remains split. Half of it stays focused on the conversation in front of me, processing questions, responding thoughtfully, and offering enthusiasm when appropriate. The other half stays locked on the man at the back of the room,aware of him with an intensity that feels intrusive and unwelcome. I don’t need to look to know he’s still there.
When the donors move on, Lila leans in again. “You okay?”
“I'm fine,” I reply automatically.
She studies me with the familiarity that comes from knowing me too well. “You're humming again.”
I stop at once. The sound cuts off mid-note, embarrassment flaring hot across my neck. “I didn't realize.”
“You never do,” she laughs softly. “Whoever that is, he's getting under your skin.”
I open my mouth to deny it. And then I recognize him. The realization arrives all at once, a sudden alignment of memory and present reality that makes my breath hitch.
The alley.
Cold brick beneath my knees. Blood soaking into the concrete. My scarf darkening beneath my hands as I pressed hard and ordered him to breathe.
My pulse jolts, skipping a beat before surging again, and my fingers tighten around the glass until I worry it might snap. The room seems to tilt, just slightly, the chandeliers slipping out of focus.
It's him. The man from the alley.
The lighting here is kinder than it was that night, softening shadows and smoothing harsh lines, but nothing about himfeels gentler. His presence has the same disciplined intensity, the same restrained force that made my instincts bristle even as I knelt beside him and fought to keep him alive.
He looks better than he did three weeks ago, but not untouched. My medical training engages automatically, cataloging details before I can stop it. The careful way he stands, distributing his weight without favoring one side too openly. The subtle restraint in his movements and the way he avoids sudden adjustments that would stress healing tissue. The faint tension in his posture tells me pain is being managed rather than resolved.
A low vibration hums in my chest before I realize it’s started. I still it with effort, pressing my lips together as he steps forward.
He closes the distance slowly, moving through the crowd as people step aside ahead of him. He stops an arm's length away.
“Dr. Hale,” he greets, his voice low and even, marked by the same accent I remember from that night. The sound of it takes hold immediately, setting my nerves on alert.
“You shouldn't be on your feet,” I reply before I can stop myself.
One corner of his mouth lifts briefly. “I've heard that.”
Lila’s eyebrow lifts as she extends her hand. “Lila Moreno,” she offers, her tone bright. “General surgeon.”
He takes her hand, his grip brief and polite, but his attention never leaves me. “Pleased to meet you,” he responds, the words formal and final.
