Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Patient

The alarm pierced the air, a sharp, grating sound that cut through the brief lull in the ER. Kellie Walter didn't flinch. She stood at the sink, the water running hot over her hands as she peeled off her blood-soaked gloves.

The trauma from the car wreck had been messy, but she had handled it. She always did.

Caleb Fletcher hovered a few feet away, his blue scrubs still crisp, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and exhaustion. "Dr. Walter," he said, his voice low and reverent. "You're like the anchor of this department. That guy would have bled out if you weren't here."

Kellie turned off the faucet and grabbed a paper towel. She dried her hands with quick, efficient movements. She shot him a glance, her expression flat. "Put your energy into observing and learning, Fletcher. Not kissing my ass."

Caleb's cheeks flushed red. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the double doors banged open.

A nurse pushed a gurney at a fast clip, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum. "Acute alcohol poisoning," she called out, her voice tight. "Severe abdominal pain, vomiting. Vitals are stable for now."

Kellie tossed the paper towel into the bin and strode toward the bay. She looked down at the patient. He was curled on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. His face was pale, sickly white, and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat.

The stench hit her immediately. Stale, cheap whiskey, the kind that burned on the way down and smelled like rot on the way up. Kellie's nose wrinkled. It was a smell she despised, a smell that reminded her of weakness and bad decisions.

She snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves, the rubber snapping against her wrists. "Sir," she said, her voice loud and commanding. "Can you hear me?"

He let out a groan, his body trembling.

Caleb hovered by the foot of the bed, scribbling on his clipboard. "Just another young guy drinking himself to death in Manhattan," he muttered.

Kellie ignored him. She placed her hands on the patient's abdomen, pressing down firmly. The man let out a muffled cry of pain, his muscles seizing under her touch. Rebound tenderness. This wasn't just a hangover.

She needed to check his pupils. She reached out with one hand, her fingers firm against his jaw, and tilted his face up toward the harsh glare of the overhead surgical lights.

The moment his face was fully illuminated, Kellie's hands froze.

The air left her lungs. Her heart did a violent stutter-step against her ribs.

It was a striking face. Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark brows. Even sick and pale, the bone structure was undeniable. But it wasn't the handsomeness that stopped her cold.

It was recognition.

A month and eight days ago. The New York City Clerk's Office. That face, looking at her across a scarred wooden desk, signing a marriage certificate.

Jeffry Alston.

Her husband.

"Dr. Walter?" Caleb's voice broke through the ringing in her ears. He had noticed her pause, the sudden stiffness in her posture. "Is something wrong?"

Kellie blinked. The ER noise rushed back in-the monitors beeping, the distant sound of someone crying. She forced her fingers to relax, her expression smoothing back into the mask of professional detachment.

"Nothing," she said, her voice steady, giving nothing away. "Prep a liter of normal saline and a protonix drip. Now."

Her mind was racing, a chaotic swirl of shock and disbelief. What was he doing here? Why was he drinking himself into a coma? The man she married drank mineral water and talked about algorithms.

The doors to the bay slammed open again. A woman rushed in, her high heels clattering against the floor. She was dressed in a sleek, stylish wool coat, her blonde hair perfectly styled, but her face was twisted with panic.

"Jeffry!" she cried out, rushing to the side of the bed. She grabbed the rail, her knuckles white. "How is he?"

She turned her frantic gaze on Kellie. "Are you his doctor? What's wrong with him? He never drives, I had to drag him out of that piece-of-crap vintage Jeep he insists on driving, and he was practically unconscious!"

Caleb took a step back, intimidated by the woman's fierce energy. He looked at Kellie, waiting for her to handle the typical distressed family member.

Jeep. Piece of crap. Vintage. The words clicked into place in Kellie's mind. The image of the "Columbia adjunct math professor" she had married snapped into sharper focus. The guy who drove an '80s Wagoneer and wore worn-out Converse.

Kellie didn't answer the woman's questions. She looked at the nurse. "We need to do an emergency endoscopy. We have to rule out GI bleeding. Get him prepped and call the on-call GI attending."

The woman's panic shifted into sharp focus. "Endoscopy? Do I need to sign something? I'll sign it."

The nurse nodded. "Yes, we need a signature from a next of kin or legal guardian."

The woman looked around frantically. "His parents are in California! They're retired professors, they can't get here! I'm his best friend, I'll sign it. I'm Zara Voss."

Kellie stared at Jeffry. His lips were slightly parted, a sickly gray color. A strange, uncomfortable sensation twisted in her gut. It wasn't concern, she told herself. It was responsibility.

"Give me the consent form," Kellie said to the nurse.

Caleb frowned. Zara blinked, confused.

The nurse handed over the clipboard and a pen. Kellie took it. Her fingers wrapped around the plastic barrel of the pen, the coolness of it grounding her.

She didn't look at Jeffry. She didn't look at Zara. She stared down at the blank line, her jaw set.