Astrid POV:
The next morning, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting a pale, gray light through the hospital windows. I was exhausted. My shift had been twelve hours of pure chaos, followed by three hours of paperwork. I stood at the nurse's station, my head resting on my hand, my eyes burning. Every time I blinked, I saw the trauma bay again — blood on tactical fabric, Arthur's strained face, and Alonso's eyes fixed on me as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.
Hailey, the nurse on the morning shift, leaned against the counter next to me, her eyes bright with gossip.
"Did you see him?" she whispered, her voice bubbling with excitement. "The guy from last night. Alonso. The one in black tactical gear."
I rubbed my temple, trying to stave off the headache that had been brewing since midnight. "I don't know who you are talking about," I lied. I just wanted to go home.
"Oh, come on, Astrid. He was gorgeous. Like, dangerous gorgeous. He stood there for hours, just watching." Her smile sharpened. "Watching you, I think."
I felt a shiver run down my spine, remembering the way his eyes had felt on my skin. Not like a man admiring a woman. Like a predator recognizing something it had lost. I didn't answer. I just stared at the computer screen, waiting for my login to process.
The charge nurse, Sarah, walked over, her clipboard in hand. She looked tired, her eyes rimmed with red. "Astrid, I need you to take the VIP room. The patient from last night, the one who was shot. He is stable, but he needs monitoring. The regular staff is overwhelmed."
I hesitated. I wanted to go home. I wanted to sleep for a week. More than that, I wanted to avoid the room where Alonso might still be waiting. But Sarah was already looking past me, toward the next crisis.
I nodded. "Fine."
I grabbed the chart and walked toward the VIP wing. It was quiet here, the floors carpeted, the walls painted a soothing cream color. It was a world away from the frantic energy of the ER. The silence made every small sound louder: the whisper of my shoes, the soft creak of the chart in my hands, the pulse beating too fast in my throat.
I reached the door of the VIP suite and took a deep breath. I pushed the door open.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn. The patient, Emiliano, was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
And then I saw him.
He was sitting in a leather chair in the corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was still in his tactical gear, his jacket discarded on the floor. He was looking at his phone, but as soon as the door clicked shut behind me, he looked up.
His eyes locked onto mine instantly.
The air in the room did not simply vanish. It changed ownership.
I felt that same pull, that same intense, suffocating pressure. My fingers tightened around the chart until the edges bent.
He stood up.
He moved with a grace that was almost predatory, a silent, fluid motion. He didn't say a word. He just walked toward me. I backed up a step, my heel catching on the edge of the carpet.
He stopped, just inches away.
The scent of cedar and pine was overwhelming now, filling my lungs, making my head spin. I hated that part of me wanted to breathe deeper.
He looked down at me, his eyes searching my face. I felt like I was being dissected, every layer of my composure being peeled back. I held up the chart, a flimsy shield between us.
"I am here to check on the patient," I said, my voice trembling slightly.
He didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared at me, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. I noticed then the subtle way he kept space between us — close enough to intimidate, but with a tension in his posture that suggested he was holding himself back, as if physical contact with anyone was something he despised.
Except the way he looked at me made the distance feel less like courtesy and more like restraint.
He reached out, his hand moving toward my face.
I flinched, pulling back.
He stopped instantly, his fingers hovering in the air. A muscle in his jaw twitched. For one charged second, neither of us breathed. His hand remained there, close enough for me to feel the heat of it, far enough that he had not crossed the line I had drawn without meaning to.
Then he pulled his hand back, clenching it into a fist at his side. He turned away, walking to the window and looking out at the city.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
I hurried to the bed, checking the IV drip, the heart monitor, anything to keep from looking at him. Emiliano's vitals were stable. His skin had more color than it had in the trauma bay. The bandage across his chest was clean. I made notes I did not need to make, buying myself a few seconds of professionalism.
Behind me, Alonso was silent.
That should have helped.
It did not.
His silence had weight. It pressed against my back, slid beneath my collar, settled between my ribs.
I finished my check, my hands shaking. I didn't look at him again. I turned to leave, my pace quickening.
As I reached for the door handle, I heard his voice.
It was deep, gravelly, like stones grinding together.
"You are coming back tonight?"
The question was simple.
It should have been simple.
But it landed like a claim.
I didn't turn around. If I looked at him again, I was afraid he would see how badly he had unsettled me. I just nodded and pushed the door open, practically running out into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind me.
Only then did I realize I had been holding my breath again.
I walked to the locker room, my heart still racing. I changed out of my scrubs, my hands fumbling with the buttons. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get home. I needed walls that did not smell like cedar and pine.
I walked out of the hospital, the morning air cool on my face. I caught the bus, the ride home a blur of exhaustion and confusion. Every time the bus braked, I saw his hand hovering near my face. Every time someone brushed past me in the aisle, my skin remembered the touch that had not happened.
When I walked through the door of my house, the living room was washed in thin morning light, but the curtains were half drawn, leaving the place dull and airless. My mother, Brenda, was standing near the window with her arms crossed over her chest. My father, David, was sitting on the sofa, looking at the floor.
The sight of them drained the last of the hospital adrenaline out of me.
"Where were you?" Brenda asked, her voice sharp. "You were supposed to be home hours ago. You were supposed to call Preston."
I sighed, dropping my bag on the floor. "I was at work, Mom. There was an emergency. I told you."
She walked toward me, her eyes narrowed. "An emergency. Always an emergency. You are throwing away a perfect opportunity, Astrid. Preston is a good man. He is wealthy, he is stable, he is exactly what you need. You are not getting any younger."
I rubbed my temples, the headache returning with a vengeance. The house felt smaller than I remembered, every wall leaning in, every word from my mother locking another door.
"I am not marrying Preston, Mom. I don't love him."
"Love?" she scoffed. "Love is a luxury, Astrid. Stability is a necessity. Look at us. Look at your father. We have struggled our whole lives. I want better for you. I don't care about your job. I don't care about your nursing. I want you to be secure."
Secure. She said it like a blessing. It sounded like a cage.
She paused, then added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Besides, I've already lined up another candidate. Marcus from the law firm. And if that doesn't work out, there's always Daniel — you remember him, the Petersons' son. You will keep trying until you find the right match. You can't stay... unattached forever. You know how important it is for our standing."
For our standing. Not for my happiness. Not for my life. Not for the career I had clawed my way into and bled myself empty to keep.
I looked at my father. "David, say something," I pleaded.
He looked up, his eyes filled with a sad, helpless resignation. "Astrid, your mother just wants what is best for you," he said quietly.
Something inside me snapped so softly no one else heard it.
I felt a wave of anger, hot and sharp, wash over me. I turned and walked toward my room, slamming the door behind me. I threw myself onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow.
I felt like I was drowning, the walls of my life closing in on me.
My mother's expectations. Preston's entitlement. My father's silence. The hospital. The VIP room. Alonso's eyes.
And then, unbidden, the image of the man in the VIP room flashed into my mind. The way he looked at me. The way the air felt when he was near.
It was dangerous. It was terrifying.
But unlike everything waiting for me in this house, it felt honest.
For a split second, it was the only thing that felt real.
