Everything Ishouldn’thave felt after finding a stranger in my home.
Nothing was broken. Nothing disturbed. Every surface untouched.
And yet, he had been there.
The knowledge sends a shiver through me, equal parts thrill and fear. He feels dangerous, like standing too close to an open flame. And I know, with unsettling clarity, that I am drawn to him the way a moth is drawn to light, aware of the risk, powerless to resist.
I force myself to breathe, to pull back into the present.
I straighten Mr Blackwood’s blankets, smooth the fabric with practiced care. I check his vitals, record the numbers, fill out his chart with neat, careful handwriting, proof that I’m still functional, still in control.
“Always good to talk to you, Mr Blackwood,” I say softly as I rise. “Rest well.”
The monitor continues its steady rhythm as I step away.
It doesn’t judge me.
The rest of the day unfolds the way these days always do, slow and subdued, wrapped in hushed voices and careful footsteps. No new admissions. No emergencies. Just families lingering at bedsides, hands clasped tight, hope whispered into stillness. Doctors murmur the same reassurances on repeat.
He’s stable.She’s comfortable.
Words meant to soothe. Words that hover in the air and never quite land.
By the time I retreat to the nursing lounge, the quiet has settled into my bones. I’ve just sunk into one of the chairs when Tate bursts through the door like she always does, bright, loud, unapologetically alive.
“Em!” she exclaims, crossing the room in three quick strides before pulling me into a hug. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I almost thought you’d snuck off with Ryan or something.”
She giggles, pulling back to look at me, eyes sharp and knowing.
“Or,” she adds, waggling her eyebrows, “have you been whisked away by your mysterious stalker?”
My stomach tightens.
“Is this your subtle way of asking how my date with Ryan went?” I counter quickly, sidestepping her mention of Khai like it never happened.
Tate studies me for a beat, lips pursed, clearly aware of exactly what I’m doing. For a moment, I brace myself for her to push, for her to say his name out loud and crack something open I’m not ready to examine.
Instead, she smirks.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “So, itwasa date.”
She punctuates it with a wink.
“I don’t know,” I admit, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth. “The word wasn’t used. But it kind of felt like one.” I hesitate, then add, “It just… ended early. There was a fire in the kitchen.”
“I heard about that,” Tate says, already moving toward the coffee machine. She punches a few buttons, the familiar whirr filling the room. “Pretty bad damage, apparently. But”, she glances over her shoulder, “some anonymous donor made a generous contribution that same day to help get everything fixed.”
Relief crashes through me, sudden and unexpected. That little café means more to the owners than just business, and I’d been quietly worrying they might not recover.
“That’s good,” I murmur. “I’m glad.”
Tate turns back with her coffee, takes a sip, then grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Anyway,” she says, sing-song. “I actually came to find you because you still owe me a girls’ night.”
She plants herself in front of me now, all determination and mischief. “This weekend. Drinks. Dancing. Something reckless.”
This time, I don’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “That sounds… good.”
