"Do you always flirt with your nurses?" I asked, just to deflect.
He smiled faintly. "Only the ones who look like they've been running from something."
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Instead, I scribbled something—anything—onto the chart just to keep my hands moving. Just to stop them from trembling. Then I nodded once, too fast, and turned toward the door.
"Call the desk if you need anything."
My hand had just touched the handle when he said it—calmly, but like it mattered.
"What's your name?"
I paused.
It was a simple question, but it felt like a doorway. And I wasn't sure what was waiting on the other side.
I could have walked out and kept the space between us clinical and clean, like I was supposed to.
But his voice, steady despite the pain, pulled something out of me. Or maybe it was his eyes. Clear now. Present. Like he was actually seeing me, not just the nurse assigned to his chart.
Turned back, slower this time.
"Gabriella."
His mouth moved like he was tasting it. "Gabriella," he repeated. "That suits you."
I rolled my eyes, even though I felt my pulse skip. "Rest. You've still got metal in your shoulder, and charm doesn't count as a vital sign."
But he was already watching me like I'd handed him more than just a name. Like it meant something.
I slipped out of the room before I could feel anything more.
Back at the nurses' station, I didn't speak. Just dropped the chart into the tray and stared down at my hands. He shouldn't have remembered me. Not through the morphine or the chaos. But he had.
And worse, he'd looked at me like I wasn't forgettable. I didn't know what to do with that.
The next few days blurred.
I showed up for my shifts, filled out charts, passed meds, and kept moving. I nodded when spoken to, smiled when I had to, but I avoided Room 412 like it could burn me.
Because maybe it could.
Maybe it already had.
My mental health spiraled. I tried everything—small talk, long walks around the unit, refolding blankets that didn't need folding—anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the pills.
But the distraction only worked in pieces. The withdrawal was getting worse, gnawing at my focus, my sleep, my sanity.
It wasn't subtle anymore.
The nausea came in waves. My skin buzzed with agitation. My hands shook when I thought no one was looking. I was drinking black coffee just to feel something sharp and bitter, to chase away the fog, even if only for an hour.
James notices.
He always notices.
Another nurse on the unit, steady and decent. We've worked side by side for almost a year. He's always been kind.
He didn't say it out loud, but he started hovering more—offering to switch rounds with me, walking me to the break room like I might fall apart in the hallway. Once, I caught him watching me as I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to massage away the pain pulsing behind my eyes.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
I nodded. Too fast. Too fake.
"I'm fine."
It's a lie. He knows it. But he lets it sit.
I kept looking toward that hallway. Room 412.
And then it happens. Mid-shift. I'm at the nurses' station pretending to chart something I've already finished, when the elevator doors ding—and everything inside me stills.
Security steps out first. Then a woman, tall, dripping in diamonds and sharp in heels that click like punctuation. And then… him
Isaac.
They're wheeling him out. Discharge papers signed. A blanket draped over his lap, suit jacket over his shoulders like he's heading back to a boardroom instead of recovering.
I freeze. My hand clenches around my pen.
His wife, because of course she's his wife, pauses just enough for the camera crew stationed outside the sliding doors. Her hair is flawless, makeup perfect. She leans down, brushes her lips against his temple like it's a photo op.
"Let's go," she says, voice low but firm.
He glances sideways—just once. And it lands. His eyes meet mine across the station. Quick. Quiet. But enough.
Like a thread pulled tight.
I look away. Pretend to check a chart. My heart is thudding so loudly I'm sure James hears it.
They wheel Isaac past me. The wife's perfume hangs in the air like something I wasn't supposed to breathe in.
And just like that, he's gone.
Room 412 is being stripped as I stand there. Bed linens off, monitors silent.
I try not to let it feel like a goodbye.
But it does.
Because he was the reason I didn't walk away.
And now I don't know what's holding me here anymore.
I left my shift early, told them I had a migraine. Technically, it wasn't a lie. My head had been pounding all day, from exhaustion, withdrawal, or just plain heartbreak—I couldn't tell anymore.
The streets outside were quiet, dusk bleeding into darkness. I kept my head down, bag slung over my shoulder, earbuds in but no music playing. Just walking. One foot in front of the other, like I had a destination when I didn't.
That's when I heard it — the low growl of an engine idling too close. A sleek black SUV crept up beside the curb. The windows were tinted so dark I couldn't even catch a reflection. My stomach tightened. I moved closer to the buildings, told myself it was nothing.
But then the back door swung open.
Fast.
Two men in dark clothes stepped out. One moved straight for me. I pivoted and ran — barely three steps — before an arm hooked around my waist. I screamed, kicked back with all the strength I had left. My elbow connected with someone's chest, but it barely slowed them down.
"Let me go!" I thrashed, the panic climbing up my throat. "Help! Get off me!"
No one came. The street was too quiet.
I was shoved into the backseat. The door slammed shut before I could even breathe.
My hands fumbled at the handle — locked. My bag had fallen outside. My phone. My badge. Everything.
"Hey… HEY! What do you want?! I don't have money! I'm not…"
No answer.
The driver up front didn't even glance back. Just pulled off, tires humming like a lullaby turned sinister.
My heart pounded in my ears. I tried to count my breath, the way Maya once taught me — four in, four out. But nothing calmed me. My fingers trembled against the door seam, and I kept watching the city melt past the windows. The familiar buildings blurred into unfamiliar ones. Wide streets turned into alleys. We were going somewhere on purpose.
Then I saw it, another black car idling under the shadows of a quiet overpass, tucked into a forgotten slice of street between warehouses and long-shut cafes.
They braked. Opened the door. One of the men yanked me out again — rougher this time, like he was tired of my fight, and dragged me across to the second car.
"No—no! Someone help!"
He tossed me into the next backseat. The door clicked behind me.
I blinked.
And there he was.
Isaac Langton.
Looking entirely too calm for a man who'd just had me abducted.