Uninvited. Unavoidable.
Khai’s body pressed close behind me in the hallway. The solid heat of him at my back. His breath warm against my ear.
The way his hand had held my waist, firm, steady, like letting go wasn’t something he’d ever considered doing.
Sweet dreams, Little Heaven.
My throat tightens.
I rub the centre of my chest again, grounding myself, shaking my head as if that might loosen his voice from my thoughts. I turn the key in the ignition.
The engine roars to life.
And I drive away, pretending my hands aren’t trembling.
The ICU is calm in that deceptive way that never lasts.
Monitors hum softly, machines breathe for people who can’t, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic and something metallic underneath it. I should feel settled here. I usually do.
Instead, my fingers keep drifting to the centre of my chest, rubbing slow circles like I’m trying to anchor myself to my own body.
I pass bed nine and pause.
Mr Blackwood lies just as he always does, still, peaceful, suspended somewhere between here and not. I pull up a chair and lower myself beside him, my voice instinctively soft.
“I’m back,” I murmur. “Told you I wouldn’t disappear for long.”
I adjust his blanket, then sigh quietly.
“There’s a man,” I tell him, staring at the steady rise and fall of his chest. “And I don’t know how he got under my skin so quickly.” My mouth curves faintly, humourless. “He makes me feel watched. Not in a bad way. Just… aware. Like the world tilts slightly whenever he’s near.”
I swallow.
“He scares me,” I admit. “Because part of me doesn’t want him to stop.”
The monitor answers steadily, unimpressed.
When I stand, the sensation doesn’t leave me.
It follows me through the unit, a subtle pressure between my shoulder blades, like someone standing just behind me. I keep glancing up, half-expecting to see Khai leaning against the wall, dark eyes tracking my every move.
He isn’t there.
But it feels like he could be.
That’s when I notice the guard.
He’s stationed near the ICU doors, posture relaxed but alert. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-cut in a way that feels deliberate. And every now and then, when he thinks I’m not looking, his gaze flicks to me.
Lingers.
I feel it every time.
Tate catches me rubbing the centre of my chest again and pauses mid-sip of her coffee, one perfectly groomed brow lifting.
“You okay there?” she asks lightly. “Because that little chest-rub thing is becoming a recurring theme.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though we both know that means absolutely nothing.
