The emergency came just after lunch. A nurse from the ER burst into the OB-GYN wing, cheeks flushed, voice trembling.
"Doktora Padilla! Twenty-four-year-old, first pregnancy, twenty-nine weeks, bleeding heavily."
Emma was already moving before the words finished. In the ER, the young woman lay pale, her dress soaked dark, husband pacing beside the bed with panic in his eyes.
"BP 90/60, pulse 120," a resident rattled.
"Placenta previa," Emma said instantly, gloving up. "She's losing blood fast. Prepare for transfusion. OR in five minutes. Call anesthesiology, stat."
She leaned close to the patient, her tone steady, her hand firm. "We're going to take care of you, okay? Hold on for your baby."
The world narrowed to orders, instruments, quick motions. Inside the OR, she clamped, sutured, commanded. Her team flowed around her, a living organism with one intent: keep mother and child alive. Sweat trickled under her cap, but her voice never wavered.
When the baby was finally delivered, crying weakly but alive, relief swept the room. The mother's bleeding slowed, her pulse steadied. Emma allowed herself a single, deep breath.
Hours later, when the mother rested in recovery and the baby was in NICU, Emma stripped off her gloves, her body trembling only now that the crisis had passed. She had done it. They had done it.
By evening, the hospital cafeteria buzzed with a different energy. One of the hospital directors was celebrating his birthday, and the entire staff seemed to have gathered—nurses, doctors, admin clerks, janitors.
"St. Therese isn't just a hospital," the director boomed from the front, his belly pressing against his barong. "It's a family. And tonight, your family's head is one year older!" Laughter rippled. "And let me take a moment to welcome our new OB-GYN department head, Dr. Emma Padilla!"
Applause erupted. Emma stood awkwardly, cheeks warm, and gave a small bow.
The director chuckled. "In this family, we work hard, but we also eat cake. So please, help yourselves!"
The line formed quickly. Emma joined it, smiling at nurses who congratulated her. The smell of chocolate and buttercream hung sweet in the air.
And then—contact.
An arm brushed hers, firm and warm. She looked up. Adrian stood beside her, impossibly tall, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair tied but loose at the edges. He was from another department—research—but somehow always near.
The collision was small, accidental in appearance. But the moment their arms touched, it was as if lightning struck through her skin. Her breath hitched, knees almost buckling. The plate in her hand tilted, cake threatening to fall.
A hand steadied hers. His.
Their eyes met. He smiled, almost sheepishly, as if caught in a secret.
Emma swallowed hard, forcing her voice into steadiness. "Sorry—wasn't looking."
But his gaze lingered, deep and knowing. Of course you weren't. I was.
He stepped back just enough, letting her move ahead in line. But the air between them still vibrated, charged, as if her body had been tuned to a frequency only he could strike.
Emma returned to her table with Mariel, cheeks flushed, cake half-forgotten. Mariel was talking, laughing, but Emma barely heard. Her pulse thrummed, alive in ways she couldn't name.
That night, Adrian closed the door of his small forest hut and let his human form fall away. Hooves struck the earth, mane tumbling free, muscles shifting into their truer shape.
The Kabalan exhaled, the forest answering his breath with rustling leaves. His court would meet him soon, but for now he stood alone, remembering.
The brush of her arm against his. The shock in her eyes. The way she nearly dropped her plate, and how natural it had been to catch her, to steady her, as if he had always done so.
He should have kept his distance. Bathala's will was clear: if she remembered, it must be by choice, not design. But he could not help himself. Every step, every chance encounter, was guided by his senses, honed on her presence.
"Emma," he whispered into the night. "Always Emma."
The forest stirred, accepting his confession. And though he was Kabalan, sworn to balance, to patience, he could not still the truth that burned brighter each day.
No matter what form he took, no matter how many lives he touched—
He thought of her. Always.