Astrid POV:
The phone rang at seven in the morning, shattering the fragile silence of my room. I had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to summon the energy to face another day. Sleep had not helped. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Alonso at the end of the VIP hallway, silent and watchful, as if he had taken up space somewhere behind my ribs and refused to leave. I let the phone ring three times before I reached for it, already knowing who it would be.
"Astrid, have you called Preston?" My mother's voice was sharp, accusatory. "I spoke to his mother at the luncheon yesterday. She said he hasn't heard from you."
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Mom, it's seven in the morning."
"Don't change the subject. You were rude to him at that restaurant, walking out like that. You need to fix this."
"No," I said. The word came out before I could stop it, firm and clear. "I am not calling him. I am not apologizing. That date was a disaster."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could feel her anger building, like static before a storm. "You are being selfish, Astrid. Preston is a catch. You won't find better."
There it was again. Better. As if marriage were a market and I was supposed to be grateful someone had offered above asking price.
"Maybe I don't want better," I said. "Maybe I don't want any of this."
Before she could respond, I hung up. My hands were trembling. I had never hung up on my mother before. It felt terrifying and exhilarating all at once, like stepping off a cliff. For a second, the room was so quiet I could hear my own breathing. Then the fear hit. She would call back. She would punish me with silence, with guilt, with another man at another table.
I got dressed and left for the hospital before she could call back.
The morning shift was uneventful until Hailey cornered me in the supply closet. She glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one was watching, then leaned in close. "I need a favor," she whispered.
"What kind of favor?"
"I want to get a photo of Alonso. The one who's been visiting the VIP room." She pulled her phone from her pocket, her eyes gleaming. "Just one shot. The other nurses would kill to see him up close."
I stared at her. "You want to secretly photograph a patient's visitor? Hailey, that's a massive privacy violation. If anyone found out, you'd be fired. So would I."
"No one will know. Come on, Astrid. Just one picture."
"No," I said. "Absolutely not. It's wrong, and it's dangerous. You still have no idea who Alonso really is."
Hailey's expression soured. "You're no fun," she muttered, sliding her phone back into her pocket.
"No," I said, sharper than I meant to. "I'm serious. Don't do it. Whatever he is, he is not the kind of man you turn into gossip."
That made her pause.
For a moment, the supply closet felt smaller, crowded by the things neither of us wanted to say. Alonso's name had a strange effect in the hospital now. People lowered their voices around it. They joked, but carefully. As if the wrong kind of curiosity might summon him.
Hailey's expression softened by a fraction. "You sound scared of him."
I looked away. "I'm not scared."
It was a lie, and we both knew it.
Hailey studied me for another second, then forced a shrug. "Fine. No picture. God, you're no fun." She turned and walked out of the supply closet, leaving me standing alone among the bandages and sterile drapes.
I let out a long breath. My heart was pounding, but I knew I had done the right thing. Still, the fact that protecting Alonso's privacy felt almost instinctive unsettled me more than Hailey's stupid request ever could.
Later that afternoon, I was walking toward the VIP wing when I saw him again. Alonso was standing near the window at the end of the hallway, his back to me, his silhouette stark against the gray afternoon light. He should have looked like any other visitor waiting outside a private room. He did not. The corridor seemed arranged around him, as if even the walls understood where not to stand.
He turned, almost as if he sensed me approaching, and our eyes met.
There was something in his gaze I couldn't decipher — something ancient and knowing. The air between us grew thick, and I felt that same strange pull I had felt before, a sensation that went beyond logic. My body remembered him before I allowed myself to think his name. The cedar in the air. The heat of his almost-touch. The way he had asked if I was coming back, like the answer mattered more than it should.
I broke eye contact first, my cheeks flushing, and hurried past him toward the nurse's station.
I expected him to speak.
He didn't.
Somehow that made it worse.
His silence followed me all the way down the hall.
When my shift ended, I walked out to the parking lot and stopped.
There, resting on the hood of my car, was a bouquet of white roses.
They were perfect and pristine, wrapped in dark, heavy paper. There was no card.
A chill ran down my spine.
I knew who they were from. I didn't know how he knew which car was mine, but I knew.
The roses looked too deliberate to be romantic. Too quiet to be harmless. A dozen white blooms lying against my scratched hood like a message only I was supposed to understand.
I looked around. The parking lot was empty. The late afternoon light had gone thin and silver, turning every windshield into a blank eye. For one absurd second, I wondered if he was watching from somewhere I could not see.
For a moment, I debated leaving the flowers there, driving away without them. But my hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and touched the petals. They were soft, cool.
Not threatening. Not exactly. That was the problem.
I picked them up and got into my car, placing them on the passenger seat. I drove home in silence, the scent of roses filling the car. It mixed with the memory of cedar until I could no longer tell which one made my chest feel tight.
When I got home, I put the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. They looked out of place, too elegant for our cluttered kitchen. My mother would ask questions I didn't want to answer. But for now, the house was empty, and I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the white roses, feeling like the ground beneath my feet was slowly shifting.
I should have thrown them away.
Instead, I adjusted one crooked stem and hated myself a little for how carefully I did it.
