Archive of Our Own

The thing about working in a hospital is that you get used to all the different kinds of silence. The soft glow of the monitor screens. The rhythmic click of a clock. Sneakers squeaking down linoleum halls. Sometimes they get louder, like the predictable parade of tired nurses, beeping ECG machines, and the broken coffeemaker making bad coffee. You get used to it.

What you don’t get used to is the guy in Room 605.

Every hospital has that kind of patient. The one nurses swap shifts to avoid, whispered about in the break room like he’s an urban legend with a billing number. Here, it’s the patient in the rehabilitation ward on the sixth floor… a man with a stare that could freeze a fever, and a talent for not saying a single damn word.

That’s the shorthand, anyway. The story goes like this: on his first admission to the hospital, he was unnervingly quiet—calm to the point of being eerie. Then, a few days later, after a visit from a woman no one seemed to recognize, everything shattered into pieces. There was shouting, the clang of a metal tray against the wall, and staff rushing in like it was the Olympics. By the time security showed up, he’d gone silent again. And that’s where he’s stayed.

The room itself doesn’t help. It’s a dimly lit isolated space tucked away from the corridors on the edge of the ward like they wanted to forget it existed. You’d passed the door more than once when you had to grab supplies from the stockroom, catching the sideways glances of orderlies who treated it like a cage with something dangerous inside.

Nobody lingered. Nobody chatted. Apparently, during routine vital signs checks, he wouldn’t scream or lash out. Perhaps it was simply that he had no fight left in him.

Later, rumors about the mysterious occupant spread like wildfire in the other wards, including yours. You weren’t one to indulge in rumors, but it was hard not to miss this one.

“Have you heard about the guy in Room 605? It’s like handling a mental patient in there. Absolute hell.”

“He used to serve in the army, didn’t he? That explains his outburst in his first week.”

“I heard it was his ex-wife who visited. Left him for another man. Honestly, I would’ve been outraged, too.”

“He must be some secret government experiment! Have you seen his body?”

“Whatever he is, I’m not going in there. The last nurse who tried said he stared at her the entire time she was in the room. Didn’t blink once. She almost cried.”

It was the sort of gossip that multiplied in the absence of facts. Each retelling added another detail until the man in 605 was less a patient and more a campfire story in scrubs. You knew better than to believe every word, but the sheer persistence of the whispers made it impossible to ignore.

So when you eventually get assigned to his ward, it feels less like being handed a chart and more like being dared.

Shit.

You were a freshly graduated nurse. You wanted a challenge. Before this, you were assigned in the primary care clinic, giving flu shots and fielding calls about strep throat. You’d been told a dozen times to take the easy cases, to not rock the boat, but you wanted a real case—a tough one. Maybe you were still riding the high of passing your boards, or maybe you were just stupid enough to think you had something to prove. So you thought: “why not the rehab ward?” while completely forgetting that 605 would inevitably be on your hands.

Whatever. Anyway, you could use the experience.

The name on his chart was “Patient Jack,” and that was all it said. No last name, no medical history. Other than his admitting condition—multiple traumatic injuries, high risk of infection and post-traumatic stress disorder, tachycardic—the only other note was a single contact person named “Hal Emmerich.” The relation was not listed, and there were no emergency instructions. It was sparse to the point of being suspicious.

You stare at the chart a moment longer, as though more information might bleed through the paper if you squint hard enough. It doesn’t.

With a deep breath, you do the only thing left to do: close the file, square your shoulders, and walk toward the far end of the rehab ward.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital hum a bland, unchanging kind of white that blinks with each step you take. When you approach the room, you steel yourself for the encounter. Every orderly you pass glances at you, as if to mourn the next sacrifice. You think to yourself they’re being ridiculous. It’s all an exaggeration. No one can be that silent. Not all the way to the edge of death… right?

The door creaks open as you step inside.

The first thing you notice about him is the tranquility. Not the peaceful kind; it was more of a barricade. His silver-white hair, long and shaggy, falls past his jawline and partially obscures his face as if a curtain drawn to keep the world out. He sits on the bed like a statue bolted down, shoulders stiff, blanket covering his lower half, attention fixed somewhere far beyond the glazed window on some distance only he can see. It’s like he’s staring past the hospital, past the city, maybe even past himself.

He hasn’t said a word to anyone since they rolled him in; not to the doctors, not to the other nurses. You have a strong feeling it’ll be the same conclusion for you as well.

“Hello,” you say, locking the room behind you. “My name is (Y/N). I’ll be your nurse. How are you feeling today?”

You wait a beat for a response. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m going to be taking your vital signs for charting. Let me know if you feel uncomfortable in any place, or if you’re currently in any pain.”

He doesn’t respond again. Despondent. But you can almost swear that you hear a low-buzzing hum from him, as if to give a bemused sarcastic response.

Fine. You’ve handled grumpier patients. You’ve patched up cranky veterans and fresh-out-of-surgery screamers. You’ve handled patients with less metal on their bones, too—but you’re not about to start counting screws and bolts out loud. Your job is to routinely check his vitals and make sure he doesn’t fall apart. His job, apparently, is to glare at the window and pretend you don’t exist.

Still, a chart’s a chart, and he’s just another patient. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You carefully inspect his body: no scars, no tattoos. Broad shoulders. Well-built. Despite the rumors, there’s somewhat a humanity to him. Nothing on him seems like the product of a government experiment, or so you think, noting no anomalies that would point to him being a synthetic being. His form is almost perfect, too perfect, and you notice how his face barely matches the story of the crazed maniac you once heard, save for the scowl that refuses cooperation.

His features are almost inhumanly beautiful. His cheekbones taper into the smooth skin of his jawline that slopes into a slender chin; the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose, even the fine line of his brows—all of it gives him an elegance that makes your chest flutter. Even with his disheveled mess of silver hair, you can’t deny that he’s... well, handsome, to say the least.

Then you notice an oddity on his face—an outline around his jaw, shaping his upper mandibles until it meets the contours of his upper lip. It’s as if his head had been ripped out of his body from the jaw up and left an unusual scar. The skin around it is smooth like it had healed perfectly over time. It’s an unusual sight, but you try not to stare. He’s not looking at you in any way, but you still hold the urge to continue your inspection.

You proceed with taking his vital signs. You try not to be too affected by the eeriness in the room—you were too used to patients complaining about skipping this part of your routine—as you begin with wrapping the cuff around his arm for his blood pressure. The rhythmic pumping of the cuff fills the room, and that was what only momentarily breaks the silence. As you watch the pressure gauge rise and fall, you try to sneak a glance at Patient Jack, feeling that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

Next, your fingers gently wrap around his wrist to measure his pulse. His arm feels heavy, a bit firmer than the other patients you’ve handled—and you can palpate for the pulsations... which were rapid. Maybe he’s nervous. Maybe you’re making him nervous.

“Alright,” you say softly, glancing at his expressionless face. “I’m going to auscultate—I mean, check your chest now. Is that okay?”

He doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway. His lack of refusal is the closest to a permission you’ll get.

Moving on, you pull out your stethoscope. You gently tug the edges of his hospital gown just enough to slip the stethoscope’s chestpiece into the small opening, careful not to expose more than necessary. You notice his hesitation when it touches his skin.

“Oh, sorry. Is it cold?” you ask. His gaze shifts back to you, a little startled as if he hadn’t expected you to notice.

Without waiting for an answer, you lift the chestpiece away and cup it in your hands, rubbing it briskly to warm the metal. Then, with deliberate gentleness, you press it against his skin again. This time, he doesn’t flinch. His sight stays on you, unblinking, and it seems the small gesture caught him off guard more than the cold ever could.

You offer a reassuring smile. His chest rises and falls with each breath, and you listen intently...

Holy shit.

Your face drops. His heart rate is off the charts. There’s a rapid rhythmic thumping of his heart resonating through the stethoscope, and your eyes widen as you register the beats. It’s not just a minor increase; his heart is racing as if trying to outpace time itself. Almost too fast for someone who seems so… outwardly composed. You glance up at him, meeting his unreadable eyes that looks at you briefly before coldly turning away.

“Mister Jack…” you begin, hesitating slightly. “Actually, can I call you that? Or do you prefer another name—a nickname, maybe?”

Again, no response. Not a grunt of discomfort or an eyeroll. He doesn’t even bat an eyelash at your direction. It seems Patient Jack was a tough nut to crack.

Mr. Jack it is, then. “Well, Mr. Jack, your blood pressure seems to be normal, but your heart rate is extremely elevated. Your chart says you’ve had this tachycardia since you were first admitted, but your doctors have noted it as low-priority since you don’t seem to be exhibiting any complications. Any idea on that? Have you experienced any discomfort, shortness of breath, or pain?” you ask.

Silence.

You continue, “Can I ask about your past lifestyle prior to admission? Were you a smoker, an athlete, or used any drugs or substances?”

More silence.

“Okay. That’s fine; I can ask another day. I’ll be here if you want to talk,” you add, a line you’ve said a thousand times to other patients before. The words slip out easily, almost like routine—but even as you say them, you wonder if you mean them.

You glance at the clipboard at the foot of his bed, scanning the intake and output chart. Still flat. The last charting shows that the vitals are consistent with your finding,—save for the heart rate, which also has a line filled on all columns—and the intake and output were at a flat zero since the last shift. Weird. Your eyes drift to the bedside table, where an empty plastic bottle sits next to a fresh, full one. At least he’s drinking, you think, even if no one is logging it.

You jot your notes quickly on the chart. The same as when you started, he keeps that same far-off stare like you’re background noise and he’s tuned into a radio station only he can hear. Meanwhile, it’s only the scratch of pen on paper sounding too loud in the room.

It should be irritating. It is irritating. Patients were supposed to meet you halfway, at least—answer basic questions, let you do your job without feeling like you’re talking to a wall. But instead of storming out, you find yourself lingering a second longer, waiting for something, anything…

Nothing comes.

You close the chart with a snap. “Alright then, Mr. Jack. I’ll see you again in a few hours. Don’t go anywhere I can’t reach.”

You sling the stethoscope back around your neck and step toward the door. The quietude hangs as it follows you out.

As you leave, you can’t help glancing back through the thin gap of the door. But just as your hand brushes the handle, you pause. Maybe it’s nothing—maybe it’s wishful thinking—but you swear you catch it: the faintest flicker of his gaze slides toward you, staying for a fraction of a second until you leave.

It’s not a word, but it’s enough to leave you wondering what it means.

“How is that even possible?” Marissa, one of the charge nurses, squints at the vitals sheet you just dropped on the counter. Her eyebrows arch as she stirs her coffee. “Are you sure his blood pressure is low? But his heart rate was—high?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, tugging your pen out of your hair and drawing lines on the vitals sheet. “Textbook normal blood pressure, tachycardia through the roof. Chart says it’s been that way since admission.”

Across the nurses’ station, Luis, the nursing aide, laughs under his breath. “Creepy. Guy sits there like a corpse, but his heart’s running marathons?”

“Did he say anything about it?” Marissa asks.

You snort. “Oh, you know. He’s a real chatterbox, that one. We talked about the weather, his hobbies, and what he had for dinner last night. And then we braided our hairs.”

That earns you a few chuckles.

The shift’s discussion goes on—combat trauma, PTSD, prosthetics, the usual wild theories. They call the rehab ward the last stop, after all. The place for the guys who get put back together, but not quite right: war-torn limbs, experimental tech gone bad, stuff the military doesn’t want to talk about. Most of the patients here are ghosts, you notice. They just sit there, staring at the wall, but are cooperative enough to answer questions in nonchalance. You learn pretty quickly not to ask what they see.

You only half-listen to the rest of the discussion. Because what you didn’t tell them is the way Mr. Jack’s breath hitched the second you leaned close with the stethoscope, or how you could’ve sworn he stole a look at your back as you walked out. Details too small to mention, but not too small to notice.

Luis glances at the chart again, then at you. “Weird. He never gets me that close.”

You blink. “...Really?”

“Really.” He shrugs, busy scribbling a note on his clipboard. “Usually he stiffens up, pulls back, like he’s warning me off. The nurses before you would just leave a line on the charts and write ‘patient uncooperative.’ Guess he must like you.”

A strange flush creeps up your neck. You try to play it off with a shrug.

Marissa snorts. “Maybe some nurses just have a lighter touch than your stubby hands, Luis.”

The little chorus of laughter that follows should make you roll your eyes, but instead your stomach does this weird flip. You mask it by tucking a loose strand of hair, pretending you’ve got more pressing things to do.

She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, already turning to you. She takes the chart to the counter and scans the numbers. “Consistently elevated rate over and over again…” Her brows tighten. “Did he get up at all today?” she asks.

“No, he won’t get out of bed,” you reply with a familiar frustration. “He just sits there. He won’t even acknowledge the walker.”

“Hmm, can’t be DVT then,” she murmurs. Then she sighs. “Well, his ambulation is definitely the least of our worries for now. Before you clock out, talk to the attending about this. They’ll probably request a twelve-lead on him if this keeps up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Luis’s words trail after you all the way until your break in the hospital canteen.

Near the end of your shift, you pass his door again and take a glance inside. He’s exactly where you left him—silent, stone-faced, impenetrable.

You then roll the ECG cart in with you. “Hi again, Mr. Jack. Doctor’s orders—just a quick test.” Your voice is too cheery this time, but it fills the room enough.

He watches you as you wheel the card closer. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue, either.

You tug on a pair of gloves, pull a packet of disposable electrodes from the drawer and start unwrapping them. “I’ll need access to your chest for this—here.” You gesture at yours and wait for him to mimic it on his own.

He doesn’t respond. For a moment you wonder if he’s going to make you fight him on it. But instead, with a slow, reluctant motion, he loosens the ties of his hospital gown. The fabric slips open just enough for you to work.

Your eyes fly downwards before you can stop yourself. Only then did it sink in that his bare chest is all hard planes and corded muscle. Not bulky, but defined like someone carved him out of steel. Old scars crisscross pale skin, faint but impossible to miss, and he must’ve earned them in ways you can only guess.

The sight nearly takes you off guard. “Thanks,” you murmur, shyer than you mean it to be.

Your fingers brush briefly against his chest as you place the first pad, cool adhesive against cooler skin. His body goes perfectly still under your touch. When you glance up, you catch the tiniest shift in his expression, like he’s holding his breath. You notice how his muscles tighten in ways the machine won’t measure.

“It’s only a snapshot,” you say gently. “Two minutes. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

The little needle on the screen jumps and dips with every beat. There’s a rhythmic beeping on the monitor that seems to get faster as the paper starts to unspool, and the zigzagging line gives you an uneasy sort of relief that his heart is indeed running a marathon. For a heartbeat, you wonder if it’s the equipment or him—or you.

When the machine beeps, you hit print, tear the paper off the feed, and gently peel away the electrodes. The last one lingers a fraction longer than it should before you pull it free.

“See? Easy. And you survived.”

Still nothing. As you turn to leave, you swear his lips part just slightly, like a word almost made it to the surface. You wait. It doesn’t come.

At the door, one hand on the frame, you look back at him. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Jack. Try not to give me any more surprises, okay?”

Outside, you find yourself pausing for a second to catch your breath. It’s a ridiculous thought, but somehow, you feel lighter…

The warm paper from the ECG machine is still clutched in your hand. You glance down at the neat rows of peaks and valleys, his heart sketched in black ink. For one impossible second, it feels like the rhythm thudding against your own ribs is syncing to the one printed on the sheet.

And now, no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop wondering if Luis was right.

A week passes before you realize you’ve fallen into a rhythm with Room 605.

Vitals, meds, chart. Then the silence presses down on you like a second set of walls. Then rinse, wash, repeat. At first, you thought it would wear you down, the way it had every other nurse before you. But instead, it’s started to feel like a truce.

It’s steadier now, or controlled. Like he’s letting you exist in his orbit without pushing you back out. He doesn’t push you away when you check his intravenous fluid line. He doesn’t glare when you brush his wrist to measure a pulse. He doesn’t say a single word, but the atmosphere definitely has shifted in the quiet. A week ago it was a barricade. This week, he’s finally let you take his oral temperature. Now it feels more like a test you haven’t failed yet.

You think of him lying there all day, every day. A man in his condition shouldn’t be able to just lay there without his muscles screaming and his body slowly wasting away. Any other patient would show signs of atrophy, bones losing density, and joints tightening with every passing week. Once, when you checked the note from the physical therapy, it only said “patient non-compliant with ambulation efforts.”

So he does leave his bed. He must be getting up when you’re not here, you realize, or working out when no one is around to see. That had to be something.

There are times when you find yourself watching for his door on your quarterly rounds even when it’s not on your list. Sometimes you linger longer than you should when you’re inside. You tell yourself it’s just because he’s different, a challenge, or a curiosity. But pulse doesn’t usually speed up for curiosity…

Luis notices first when he sees you strolling around the ward. “You got inside 605 again?” He’s perched on the edge of the station desk, nursing a paper cup of sludge that passes for coffee. “Huh. That’s gotta be some kind of record. Man, he really doesn’t scare you, does he?”

You shrug, busying yourself with flipping the sheets so he can’t see the way your mouth wants to tug up. “He’s probably just tired of the rest of you.”

Luis barks a laugh. “Nah, he likes you. Or tolerates you. Same thing.”

The conversation at the nurses’ station fades behind you as you turn away from the counter. You walk the long, sterile hallway back to his room. His door is closed, like always. You knock twice before pushing in.

He’s there, of course. Same spot. Same stone-faced stillness. But his focus snaps toward you the second the door opens, and that alone is enough to make your throat go dry. “Morning, Mr. Jack,” you greet lightly. “A whole week and you’re still stuck with me. Poor you.”

Once again, no reply. Just the slow blink of someone who isn’t sure if you’re serious or not. You’ve expected the familiar lack of a response, but you keep talking anyway, pretending this isn’t getting to you.

You take his arm, wrap the cuff, watch the dial climb and fall. Normal. You reach for the thermometer, and that’s when it happens:

He tilts his head slightly, just enough that you notice. Like he’s acknowledging you. Like he’s… listening.

It throws you off so badly you almost fumble the thermometer. “Uh—open, please.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

And he does. Just like that.

His breath is warm on your wrist, and the air between you feels thin. Your gaze, which was trained on the thermometer, drifts up to his. It’s then that you notice… his eyes.

You’ve seen them all week, but always in stealing glances, never long enough to really take in the color. They’re startlingly blue—the shade of a winter sky after a storm has passed, deep and clear and impossibly vast. Up close, you can see faint lines etched around the pupils, a depth that makes the cold, flat stare you’ve grown used to seem like a lie. There’s a sense of clarity there… a terrible understanding that makes you forget the number blinking on the screen, and the fact that you’re still holding a thermometer in his mouth.

You look away quickly, almost forgetting to check the reading. “Normal,” you announce, though your own temperature feels suspiciously higher.

When you’re done, you record the numbers, all steady except for his pulse—which is still running fast. You glance at him, then down at your chart.

“Still high,” you murmur. “Guess I’m just too exciting.”

And there—it’s tiny, fleeting, but real: a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Like the ghost of a smile. Gone before you can prove it to yourself.

“Let me know if I can get you anything, alright? Water, tea, more comfortable pillows… I take requests.”

You wait, holding your breath. You’re certain he won’t answer. That you just imagined that sliver of a grin. You’re already turning to the door until—

“A book.”

The sound is low, gravelly, and entirely unexpected.

It’s his voice.

You jolt as you turn around. You’re completely frozen as you’re caught between the door and his silent, waiting interest. The words are clear, a simple request. But the quiet authority behind that makes the back of your neck prickle with a shock that isn’t related to the cool air around you at all.

You only manage a, “H-huh?”

His eyelids narrow slightly, like he’s trying to decide if you’re mocking him. Then he repeats it slower. “I’d like a book, nurse.”

For a moment, you can’t remember how to nod, how to breathe, how to be a nurse instead of someone unraveling under the weight of a patient’s first words. When you finally manage, it’s with a shaky half-smile. “Alright, Mr. Jack. I’ll bring you one.”

His gaze lingers, unblinking, as if to test your promise. And then, no sooner than that, his muteness folds back around him.

You want to ask what kind of book, want to ask if he’s been able to speak all along, want to ask anything at all. But you force yourself to look away, to turn and face the reality of the chart in your hand. Eventually, the sound of the door to his room closes behind you with a click.

You don’t sleep much that week. It might be because of the long shifts, or because the rehab ward keeps you on your toes… or maybe because of one gravelly word that’s replayed itself in your head far too many times.

A book.

So, on your day off, you find yourself in the quiet corner of a secondhand bookstore downtown, staring at uneven stacks and dog-eared spines. The air smells like old paper and dust, and the low light feels a million miles away from the bright, sterile hospital ward. You stand there too long, weighing choices you shouldn’t have to think this hard about. Nothing in nursing school ever taught you how to pick out literature for a patient who barely speaks.

You find yourself drawn to the history section first, thinking of combat memoirs. You pick one up, a soldier’s account of a war you barely remember. A war memoir? No—too cruel, too on the nose. You set it down just as quickly.

Next, you browse a dense collection of essays. Philosophy? Never mind… too heavy. He’s not looking for a lecture, and you’re not about to hand him something that looks like work. He just asked for a book, with no other direction. The simplicity of his request is what makes it so complicated.

You end up in a different aisle looking at anything caught in between as you find a collection of short stories. It’s the kind of book someone can pick up and put down without pressure. No heavy plot to follow, no long commitments and just small, self-contained worlds. It seems the right choice for a man who lives in his own.

By the time your next shift starts, the book feels as if it weighs more than the whole electrocardiogram machine you pushed around last week.

Room 605 is quiet as always when you step inside. He’s awake—of course, he’s always awake. Sitting up this time, posture stiff, one hand resting against his blanket-covered thigh as if carved there. His eyes flick to you, and then to the object in your hand.

“Delivery service. One book, as requested,” you greet.

There’s a sense of acknowledgement on his face that’s almost too faint to catch. Not a smile exactly, but not nothing either. You take it as permission and set it down carefully on his bedside table.

“I was going to pick my own recommendation, but I thought short stories might be easier. You don’t have to commit to just one thing and you can skip to the next chapter if it bores you. You don’t even have to start at the beginning. It’s a lower-stakes commitment, you know? Like, if you start a novel and you hate it, it feels like a waste. But if you hate a short story, there’s another one right after,” you explain. Suddenly, you grow aware that you’re rambling. “I-If you don’t like it, I’ll find another. Or ten others.”

You expect the quiet again, the wall to go back up. But instead, he asks, “What’s it called?” His voice is rough, like it’s still learning how to exist outside his chest.

You glance at the cover. “Oh! Uh… A Treasury of American Short Fiction. It’s got all the classics. Hemingway, Carver, O’Connor. I even found a table of contents, so you can just jump around. I’ve actually only heard about this and never read it myself, but my friends have…”

You stop, because you realize his focus isn’t on the book at all.

They’re on you.

Not on the book, or the floor, or his IV fluid hanging above—you. His gaze is so steady it’s almost physical. That’s when you notice—properly, this time, the sharp planes of his face: the pale skin drawn tight from too many battles, the scar running along his cheekbone like a faded crack in porcelain. How have you missed that before? You had seen them, but never really looked. Now, with his eyes on you—so impossibly azure under the sterile lights—it’s the kind of look that feels less like he’s seeing you and more like he’s memorizing you.

It also means that his unblinking attention is observing every wobble of your nerves.

You awkwardly look away, grabbing the book and flipping it open. You pretend you’re just showing him the table of contents despite your clumsy hands. “Anyway. Um. You can start with whichever catches your fancy.”

A pause. It stretches long enough that you wonder if you’ve embarrassed yourself.

That is, until he replies with: “Thanks.”

It’s almost swallowed by the hum of machinery outside the rehab ward, but it’s unmistakable. It carries heavier than the word itself—and it feels dangerously close to sincerity.

Your breath catches. You try to chase it down with a casual question. “Do you want me to bring more, or maybe another genre? Poetry, sci-fi, or…”

He’s already looking away. And just like that, whatever part of him cracked open a moment ago is sealed back up tight.

You wait, half-hoping he’ll say something else. Yet the silence that follows is deliberate and final. You nod even though he isn’t looking. “Okay. Just let me know.”

You set the book on the table beside him again and step back, your hands fidgeting with the edges of your clipboard as though it could ground you.

Before you leave, you pull your stethoscope from around your neck. “Vitals first,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. The familiar routine steadies you: take the blood pressure cuff and wrap it around his bicep. You clip the pulse oximeter onto his finger, and the small red light blinks to life. You feel his chest rise and fall as you count his breaths, making sure it’s a steady, even number. Everything reads about the same as the week before it—still that elevated heart rate, still that stubborn wall of secrecy.

“Normal,” you say while jotting the numbers down. “…Or normal for you, anyway.”

You finish the routine fast and settle the tools away, but somehow you get the urge to stay a second longer. His profile remains unreadable, sculpted in shadow and light, the faintest glimmer of its color catching when he blinks. It is when you close the door gently behind you when the rest of your doubt creeps in.

You misread it. Definitely. It wasn’t warmth at all, just habit, some automatic flicker of manners left buried beneath everything else he’s been through. Luis was definitely wrong, and Patient Jack doesn’t like you at all.

Still, despite your retreat, your chest feels tight as if that single word—a simple “thanks”—has settled there like a secret you don’t know what to do with. Because somehow, in this strange exchange between a patient and his nurse, it was you who already let him in.

A month and a half slips by. Eventually, the days bleed into each other until you swear you’ve been living inside these pale-grey hospital walls longer than you’ve been alive.

You’re still in the rehab ward—same scuffed floors, same squeaky rolling carts, same endless supply of lukewarm coffee and sarcastic coworkers to keep you sane.

And yes, same patient in Room 605.

He’s not exactly what you’d call improved, at least not in the traditional, measurable sense. He’s still stone-faced. Still doesn’t talk much even when the other shift nurses draw the short straw. But little things have shifted, and they’re little enough that only you seem to notice.

Like how he doesn’t tense quite as much when you take his pulse now. Or how his eyes track you when you walk in, instead of flicking away like before. Or—your personal favorite—that he’s actually halfway through the book you left him. You know because once, when you came in earlier than usual, you caught him with it open in his lap. He shut it the second you crossed the threshold as if you’d walked in on something indecent.

Not that you mentioned it.

The ward itself runs on routine. Morning vitals. Medication passes. ECGs when ordered. Paperwork that never ends. And somewhere in between all of that, you keep drifting back into Mr. Jack. Sometimes just to check the IV line, sometimes just to swap linens, sometimes just because you say you’re checking in on him, but really you want to see if he’ll break again.

Most days he doesn’t. But every now and then, you get a single word, maybe two, dropped like coins in a fountain. It’s enough to keep you waiting for the next.

After a routine of vital signs-checking in the other rooms, you find Marissa waiting for you at the nurses’ station.

She’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, her expression cool and unreadable. You’re the only nurse in the ward today, and the nursing aides aren’t around, yet the atmosphere around her feels deliberate. She waits until you are at your own computer, pulling up a chart, when she speaks.

“A word, please,” she says, voice flat and even.

You turn to face her, your stomach already sinking. “Everything okay?”

“A nurse reported to me earlier. Said they found something with the patient in 605 they haven’t seen before,” she replies. “So I went to his room. There’s a book on his table. A collection of short stories, if I saw correctly.”

Your pen stills over the paper when you respond with a meek, “…Yes?”

“605 hasn’t had a visitor in a long time. Which can only mean someone brought it in.”

You don’t bother denying it. You should’ve known it wouldn’t slip under the radar forever. “I guess so,” you only say.

Her brows lift. “And did you happen to check that with me first?”

More than four weeks in the rehab ward and you’d managed to avoid any serious mistakes—no misplaced meds, no botched charts, no accidents that would haunt your file. But apparently, your one crime was hardcover and 342 pages long.

“He asked for it,” you reply, more defensive than you intend. “It was the first thing he’s said to me. It’s a sign he’s engaging.”

Marissa’s regard doesn’t soften. She wears the tone of someone who’s had to wrangle too many rookies when she says, “It’s a sign you’re not following protocol. You don’t bring in un-cleared items, no matter what they are.”

“It’s a book, Nurse Marissa,” you shoot back, “not a plate of food.”

“It’s about precedent and liability,” she counters. “We don’t just allow family members who try to sneak in cheeseburgers in the rehab ward for a reason. Besides, you don’t know what he’s been through, what his past is. We don’t bring in personal items unless we’ve cleared them by the attending or myself. Especially not him.”

You bristle before you can stop yourself. “With all due respect, he’s not a child. And it’s not like I gave him contraband.”

Marissa leans closer, lowering her tone so the rooms with open doors don’t overhear. “He’s not like the others here, (Y/N). You’ve read his file, haven’t you? PTSD. Violent outbursts. What will you do if that book, with a single word or a picture, triggers a flashback? What if you’re the one in the room when he has an outburst?”

Her words are a cold splash of reality. You feel your cheeks flush, not with embarrassment, but with a keen, ugly anger. You think of the scar on his cheek, the way his body goes still under your touch, the way his voice cracked open just enough to say thanks. “He’s been stable,” you insist. “More stable than when I first got here.”

“And one month of ‘stable’ behavior doesn’t erase his history of violent outbursts. You’ve made a unilateral decision to change his plan of care.”

“I’m just trying to help him. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

Marissa exhales through her nose, visibly torn between scolding you and letting it slide. “Our job is to provide care, within the rules. Your gut feeling isn’t what they’re going to look at during a review. The chart is the legal document, and if you didn’t follow protocol, that’s the only thing that the legal department will see,” she says. Ultimately, she shakes her head. “You’re getting too emotionally involved in this case, (Y/N). I know you mean well, but don’t let sympathy cloud your judgment. Keep things professional.”

You sigh defeatedly. “Okay,” you reply numbly.

“Leave the book there for now. Don’t bring in anything else. And if administration hears about this, it won’t be his problem—it’ll be yours. Understood?”

That lands heavy. You nod, unable to find a single word to say in your defense that would change her mind. “Understood, ma’am.”

Marissa’s face remains impassive as she studies you for a beat longer. And then, she turns and walks away, the click of her shoes on the linoleum a sharp sound.

You stand alone at the station while the weight of her reprimand settles on you. You let out a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles go pale. Professional. That’s what she called it. As if you hadn’t already tried to draw that line yourself a hundred times.

The book, which had felt like a secret between you and Jack just moments ago, was now a point of professional contention. A simple act of kindness had been turned into a violation—a mistake. But as you look down the hallway, toward the closed door of Room 605, you can’t bring yourself to feel regret. You know the peacefulness wasn’t empty, and you know a book could just be the beginning.

Hours later, when you pass by 605, your eyes flick automatically to the table by his bed. The book is still there, spine bent in the middle where he left off. He pretends he’s never seen it before when you step in for vitals, and doesn’t even glance your way.

You don’t ask. Not today.

Because Marissa’s voice is still ringing in your head.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe professional is the only safe way forward.

And yet—walking out with the clipboard clutched between a death grip—you can’t shake the thought that if you take the book away now, you’d be taking more than just paper.

Switching from morning shift to evening is always brutal. It’s a weekly routine, but the rhythm always feels upside-down, and your stomach never quite knows if it should be craving breakfast or dinner. By the time you clock in for today, the halls are dimming into that late-afternoon lull when even the machines seem to beep slower.

You’re still tucking your badge back into place when one of the morning shift nurses catches your arm near the station. “Heads up,” she calls. “The patient in 605 has a visitor.”

You freeze mid-step. “Visitor?”

She’s already packing his things away for her shift as she tilts her head toward the ward. “It’s some lady. Pretty, well-dressed, doesn’t look like the usual crowd. She came in about twenty minutes ago. Marissa cleared her. Said she was family.”

Your stomach knots. Jack never mentioned family—well, he barely mentions anything.

“His chart doesn’t list a family,” you say.

She shrugs. “Tell me about it. We all saw that. But the charge nurse cleared her, so… who knows.”

Before you can ask more, a noise cuts down the hallway. It’s deafening, metal against tile, followed by the unmistakable slam of gurney heavy against a wall. A chorus of startled gasps echoes from the far end.

The nurse grimaces. “And that would be the other shoe dropping.”

You’re already moving before she can stop you. Immediately, you bolt forward to the source, the organ inside your ribs slamming like an alarm. The nursing aides who look like they’d rather not get involved blur past as you weave through them. The closer you get to 605, the more the air feels charged, like static before a storm.

The door is half open. Inside, the scene is chaos: the little bedside table is knocked sideways, and the book you’d brought in a month ago is lying face-down on the floor. The spine is completely cracked in half, pages shredded into little scraps that scatter across the linoleum like confetti, leaving the tattered remains of its cover hanging on by a single thread. And standing across from the bed is… the woman.

“Miss Rosemary, you need to move,” an orderly calls.

“I need to talk to him,” she simply says.

She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t flinch. She’s stunning in a way that’s almost surgical. Smooth, dark hair perfectly arranged, makeup immaculate, her posture rigid with the kind of practiced poise that makes her look taller than she is. It almost makes you feel jealous at the way she can remain so pristine and unaffected by the chaos of the room.

And Patient Jack… he’s on his feet for the first time in your presence. He’s barefoot, hospital gown hanging loose around his frame, standing with one hand braced hard on the edge of the bed and the other fisted tight at his side. His expression is all steel, every scar pulled taut across his face, and eyes blazing with a heat you didn’t think he had in him locked on the woman in front of him.

“I told you I don’t want to see you anymore,” he says. His voice is low, furious, and ragged.

By and by, it sinks into you that you’re hearing a voice you never knew existed within him. The sound of it—a rasping growl torn from his chest—feels like the air is being scraped clean.

The woman—Rosemary—doesn’t flinch. “I had to see you. I had to know you were alive.”

“You came here as soon as they brought me in, didn’t you? You already left me here to die.”

His words snap into the air like a whip, and the way he says them makes your chest go tight.

She’s his ex-wife.

It feels like the floor shifts under you. Shit. Of course the ex-wife was real. You’d heard the nurses talk, of course, but you had mentally filed all of his pain away as something born of his injury and his isolation here. The picture makes so much more sense now.

Jack’s breath heaves, muscles tight, every scar across his body alive with tension. You’ve never seen him so unyielding before, and this is completely new. This is rage barely contained, dug out and left unshielded.

You hover in the doorway, arms rooted on the wall as if to shield you, caught between duty and the very real instinct to back away from whatever storm is about to hit.

It is Rosemary who steps closer, measuring her tone. “Jack, please. Just listen to me—”

He cuts her off with a ragged laugh that has no humor. “Listen? You think I haven’t been listening? Every word, every whisper through these goddamn walls—I hear it all. The doctors, the nurses, you—talking like I’m broken. Like I’m already gone.”

“It’s not like that, Jack. I have to tell you something—”

“—You don’t know what it’s like,” he continues, the words lace with pure venom, “to wake up and not know if you’re still a man or just some machine they keep alive out of pity. So don’t stand there and tell me to listen.”

“Jack…” Rosemary tries again, reaching out like she might touch his arm.

“Get out,” he snarls. The pitch of her voice does nothing to soften him. If anything, it hardens him further. His shoulders coil tight, like he’s forcing himself not to move. Not to break.

“Please—”

“I said GET OUT!”

His shout rattles straight through you.

Orderlies rush up behind you, waiting for a command, for someone to intervene. But all you can do is stand there, pulse racing, as the man who never spoke finally raises his voice—not for you, but for the woman who once had his heart.

That’s when Marissa appears at your side, already snapping orders. “Everyone, back! Give them space!”

Rosemary flinches at the sudden authority in the room but doesn’t leave. Not until Jack’s gaze cuts through her like a blade. For a breathless moment, the entire ward is nothing but that silent exchange—blue eyes against hers, fury against sorrow.

And then she turns with a sob. She brushes past you without so much as a glance, perfume trailing like smoke. What’s left is a silence so uncomfortable it hums, and the wreckage of a man who just used every ounce of strength he had left to push someone away.

You stand frozen, pulse hammering with too many things. It’s a lot to process right now—too much. But his voice, the raw edge of it, has shattered everything you thought you knew about him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He stands braced on trembling legs, heaving, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. His shadow falls long across the floor, and you think, it’s over. He’ll absolutely sit back down now.

But then his hand lashes out, knocking the bedside table clean over. His fist collides with the tray and sends it skidding into the wall. The crash ricochets through the room; water pitcher spilling, plastic cup bouncing across the tile. He grabs at the IV pole next, yanking until it groans against its wheels, the line snapping loose. The cords whip everywhere as fluid splatters across the floor. His breathing grows into broken patterns, animalistic, as though his wrath itself is tearing through him faster than his body can contain.

You can’t move. You can’t even breathe. You can only stare, rooted to the spot, fingernails biting into your palm. You’ve seen patients panic or spiral out of control. But this… is something else. This is a soldier unraveling, grief spilling out in jagged edges too sharp for the room to contain. He isn’t the quiet, guarded man you’ve come to know in fragments—he’s more volatile, larger, burning.

“FUCK!” he shouts. It rips out of him like a wound, low and guttural, and he slams his fist into the wall. The drywall gives with a dull thud, not enough to break but enough to leave a dent, and still he isn’t finished.

He looks ready to destroy everything in reach—everything that dares to exist in this moment in time. And then—

His eyes find yours.

They’re wild and burning with something you can’t name. His chest heaves, muscles straining under the weight of restraint he barely clings to. But then his shoulders falter as if he suddenly remembers you’re there, seeing him unrestrained and unguarded.

The wordless conversation between you is its own battlefield.

Time halts. For a heartbeat, the chaos falters. The room shrinks to just that line of sight between you—his rage meeting your fear, his violence meeting your shock…

Until two hands seize your shoulders. Marissa cuts in, commanding: “Out. NOW!” She’s already pulling you backward with an iron grip, not even giving you the chance to hesitate.

You stumble as orderlies push past and bodies swallow the room in a blur of uniforms. One reaches for restraints, another for the IV tubing, moving in a practiced rhythm. The door shuts hard in your face as Marissa steers you clear, leaving you breathless in the hallway.

“Are you out of your mind?!” she snaps as she spins toward you. Her nose is flaring, her tone all business. “You don’t freeze in there! Move, protect yourself, and call for backup. Do you understand?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. You can still feel the heat of his gaze in the moment before everything exploded, the way he’d looked straight at you and stopped. “…He wasn’t going to hurt me,” you hear yourself say, and it came out more muted than you intended.

Marissa stares at you like you’ve just spoken another language. “A patient like that doesn’t think straight when he’s like this. He doesn’t care who’s in front of him, and you just happened to be in reach. You’re a nurse, (Y/N), don’t you forget that!”

That stings. You swallow hard, nodding because it’s easier than arguing. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her glare softens, though just barely. Eventually, she sighs, rubbing her temple. She takes a step back as her expression regresses into one that’s more resigned than angry. “Stay here. And don’t move until I find the psych team,” she commands tiredly.

And then she leaves you standing there, alone.

You press your back to the wall, hands shaking, trying to steady your breathing as the memory of what happened replays in your head. You can still hear him on the other side with his rage boiling, then muffled commands, then the heavy thrum of boots as security tightens the circle around him.

You feel as if you’re choking. Because you actually thought you’d finally had a glimpse of who he was… truly was. But this—this violence barely caged—has torn through that illusion.

And you were a fool to think that you can fix it all by yourself.

Later, by evening, you hear the finality of it as they send him down to the psychiatric ward.

The rehabilitation ward is more hushed than usual in the following weeks. Without Patient Jack, they feel longer than they should. Everyone returns to their old routine—vitals, meds, therapy schedules, meals.

And yet, the absence is loud. His bed has been stripped and the room reset to neutrality. The dent in the wall has been fixed. They’ve placed a new clock too, perhaps realizing that patients can eventually go insane without a way to mark the passing of time. The staff stop mentioning the outburst, but the way conversations pause when you walk into the nurses’ station says enough.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. That whatever flicker you thought you saw in him had been wishful thinking. Still, every time you pass Room 605, your chest tightens.

Three weeks later, just past the shift change, the orderlies wheel him back in.

You don’t notice it at first. It has been another evening of report sheets and vitals, after all. Marissa is barking orders, and the faint scent of disinfectant that’s soaked into your scrubs no matter how much you wash them is the only other thing you’re focused on.

Until the double doors hiss open.

The sound makes everyone look up. Two orderlies guide a wheelchair into the hall, flanked by a psych nurse. At first you don’t process who’s sitting there. He looks… different. His silver hair is longer, now dipping between the curve where his neck meets his shoulders but still messy from weeks away. His hospital gown hangs looser around sharper angles, weight lost where there wasn’t much to spare. His wrists rest on his lap, pale and taped where IVs must’ve been. And they’re free—but bruised faintly from restraints.

It takes a beat before recognition hits you square in the face.

“Patient ‘Jack,’ back to rehab after thirty-two days in psychiatric care.” Marissa steps forward, already giving her clipping instructions. “Orders are in the chart—med changes, monitoring protocol, all logged. Restricted visitation. Daily notes required. Minimum two staff during P.T.” Her tone is brisk. Professional. The usual aftermath of a psych transfer. But you catch the faintest glance at you, like she’s daring you to react.

You keep one of the patient charts close to your nose and pretend to busy yourself. You’re lucky she can’t hear your pulse. Because it’s reacting to the way Patient Jack isn’t looking at Marissa, at the psych nurse, nor at the floor.

He’s looking at you.

And it’s not the blank, detached stare he wore before. It’s like he’s seeing if you’re real. His lips slightly open, teeth hovering over the bottom one, and the whisper that follows is so low you almost think you imagined it.

The sound of Marissa clearing her throat cuts through the air. “Alright, let’s move him to his room. Nurse (Y/N), you’ll assist.”

Her words snap you back, though your heartbeat doesn’t slow. You nod, too quickly, and step forward. Like perfect timing, your palms suddenly feel damp. You step behind the wheelchair and curl your hands around the grips, forcing your breaths to even out as you wheel him down the familiar corridor.

Room 605. His room.

Inside, the room smells the same as it always did: antiseptic and faintly of the liquid cleaner housekeeping uses on the floors. The bed is freshly made and the sheets have been ironed. The newly installed clock on the wall ticks with a maddening steadiness, as if nothing has changed. But you know better.

You guide the chair to the bedside. “Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, “here we go.” Your voice is too thin, too bright, but you can’t help it.

He doesn’t resist as you lock the wheels. Doesn’t resist as the orderly moves to steady him—though one quick flicker of his death stare sends the man backing off and exiting, muttering to himself about getting paperwork signed.

Then it’s just you and him.

You kneel, checking the footrests, pretending this is just another task. But when you glance up, his gaze pins you again, quiet and intent, as though he’s waiting for you to catch up to revelation he’s already had.

“What is it, Mr. Jack?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.

“Not even a ‘hello’ after disappearing for weeks?” you joke with a mock scoff. “Fine. Let’s get you settled then.”

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly says, voice rough like it’s not used to apologizing.

For a second you think you misheard him. “Sorry?”

“About the book.” His fingers curl faintly over the wheelchair’s arm, knuckles tightening. “I threw it on the floor last time and it got torn apart during the visit.” He doesn’t say Rosemary’s name, but you know what he means already. “I didn’t mean to. I was just angry. And then it was shredded up before I could take it back. I—” He cuts himself off with a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except there’s no humor in it. “It doesn’t matter. Just… I shouldn’t have done that.”

For a second, you don’t know what to say. The apology feels out of place from him, almost jarring. You settle with, “It’s just a book, Mr. Jack. Things happen.”

“You bought it for me,” he says.

His sincerity is so unexpected you almost forget how to breathe. “It’s fine. Really, I don’t regret it. It was a gift. It wasn’t… a thing you owed me. I wanted you to have it.”

He looks at you then, and the weight of his gaze is more intense than his fury ever was. He takes a long, slow breath, and for the first time, you feel like he’s truly speaking without his usual guard. “I know,” he admits. “But when Rose—when that woman was here, and I became like that… that book was the only thing in this room that felt like it was mine. That was for me.” He meets your eyes directly, and the vulnerability in them takes your breath away. “I just wish I didn’t break the only nice thing I had.”

His confession ring in your ears, stripped of all the anger and violence you’ve seen. He looks at you with a raw vulnerability that you feel in your own chest. You realize then, that he isn’t just talking about a book.

He’s talking about himself. About his existence in this sterile place.

You shake your head. “It was just a book,” you repeat. “Don’t worry about it. I can get you another one.”

He doesn’t seem to be convinced. The way his lips purse tells you he’s still worried, but there’s nothing more to say. Recognizing that the conversation has stalled, you stand up, ready to guide him from the wheelchair to the bed.

You reach for his arm meaning to steady him—but he tenses immediately. It’s a silent refusal. With a controlled motion, he stiffly pushes himself up without your help. You withdraw your hand as you try not to show the awkward sting of rejection.

But as he closes the distance between you and the bed, you notice something unexpected. It’s not the sterile scent of the hospital room, nor the faint smell of old linens. It’s him. He smells faintly of the crisp smell of a bar of soap—clean, powdery, with a citrusy tang like lemon rind and water. Not at all what you’d expect from someone who’d just spent weeks in psych.

He smells… alive.

You realize how close he is to you now. It’s… distracting, enough to make you blink twice before busying yourself with setting up the IV line.

Nevertheless, Jack is still struggling. His frame is shaking from the exertion of just standing upright as if he’d never done this in a while. You ignore his grumpy groans and hover a gentle hand around his waist to help him.

“Let me help you walk at least,” you insist.

“No.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I said no.”

“You’re about two seconds away from face-planting on the floor, Mr. Jack.”

“I’d rather fall than be coddled.”

“I can’t leave until you’re back in bed. So, one of us is going to be here for a while.”

Somehow he’s even more stubborn now than a 90-year-old geriatric patient.

You’re no physical therapist. You simply intend to help him hoist his leg up the bed. However, he flinches away from your touch on his arm with a low hiss of ingenuine pain. His balance falters as his weight shifts too quickly; your instinct takes over, and you lunge forward before he can collapse back into the wheelchair.

That’s when it happens—he hoists himself with a jerky movement, trying to get away from you. The motion is too fast, and your footing, still on the loose hospital tiles, slips. One moment, you’re trying to stop him from landing on the floor; the next, you’re stumbling. He lurches forward to catch you, and you instinctively grab onto his shoulders for balance.

The momentum carries you both sideways. For a breathless second, the world tilts… IV pole rattling, sheets bunching…

You land on top of him over the bed, palms braced on either side of his chest. His hair spills across the sheet in pale strands like scattered silver. Soon, his body goes rigid under yours, all tense and warm, and suddenly you’re too aware of his eyes flashing up at you.

Oh, my God. You’re on top of your patient.

You realize, half-horrified, that your face is now just inches from his, his breath fanning faintly against your skin. His once furious gaze, so full of rage just weeks ago, widens with something you can’t quite decipher. His scent becomes more overwhelming, soap and citrus and everything in-between. For a wordless moment, you just stare at each other like this; the full weight of the situation—and your own body—pressing down on him.

Maybe he’s not talking because he’s stunned, just as you are. Maybe—maybe, maybe… you keep repeating that thought in your head despite the way his eyes trace the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the beads of sweat in your neck. He’s just surprised, you reason. Nothing more.

When the corner of his mouth twitches, a micro-expression that you’d miss if you weren’t so close, you finally take in the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the dark shadows beneath his bottom lid, and the long line of scar that divides his mandible from the rest of his head. The tense, steel-like line of his jaw softens almost imperceptibly.

He doesn’t move to push you away. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if he even wants to.

You find your palms sinking into the fabric of his hospital gown without meaning to. Beneath it, you can feel how solid he is—the same planes of muscle that don’t quite match the weeks of restraint he’s endured. The steady rise and fall of his breath presses faintly against your hands, and under it you catch the quickened lubb-dubbs of his heartbeat. It’s as fast as you can remember when you first heard it, almost startlingly so, drumming through your fingertips like it’s trying to escape. At the same time, your knees are tangled with his, the heat from his body embracing yours.

A faint exhale escapes from him. The puff of air brushes your cheek. Suddenly, a slow, disbelieving smile spreads across his face, and it appears like a genuine curve of his lips. He lets out what seemed to be a chuckle, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest and reverberates through your body…

And then you scramble back immediately, cheeks burning, muttering about losing your footing as you right yourself.

“Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Your words trip over themselves too fast, or too embarrassed.

Professional, you hear Marissa’s words in your head. Keep it professional.

So you force your hands down to your sides, unclenching them before they betray you, and take a steadying breath.

He doesn’t answer at that. He just keeps looking at you, a strange yet unreadable reaction flickering in his face, as though he’s trying to decide what to say to you. Or perhaps he’s keeping himself from laughing at your flustered appearance.

With a newfound ease, he sits up and swings his legs onto the mattress. The earlier struggle seems to have vanished and been replaced by a controlled grace as he sits back up on the bed. Finally, he settles against the pillow. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, the momentary exertion clearly having taken a toll on him.

Meanwhile, you place a blanket over his legs. “...Thank you,” he says.

Still fazed, you nod before you can stop yourself. “Y-you’re always welcome.”

“Don’t make a habit of it,” he adds. “Landing on me, that is.”

You blink, startled, never expecting him to even address it. You realize there’s the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. It’s gone almost as soon as you notice it, fading back into the practiced neutrality he wears like armor.

“I’ll… try not to, Mr. Jack,” you squeak, and it comes out thinner than you’d like. You don’t dare look at him and prime the IV instead, terrified that you’ll never see that smile anymore if you did.

His eyes open again, the teal blue catching in the low light. For a moment, he studies you silently. Then, gradually, almost as if he’s testing the taste of it, he says:

“Raiden.”

It lands like a stone dropped into still water that ripples through the space between you.

You hesitate with your response and only manage a, “...Huh?”

“My name,” he says, more certain this time. “You asked me if there’s another name I prefer to be called. It’s ‘Raiden.’ You can call me Raiden.”

It shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it does—like a secret he’s chosen to place in your hands. You take a moment to replay it in your head and nod once to acknowledge this. “Sure, Mr.—Raiden,” you repeat, testing the weight of it on your tongue. “What a nice name. It suits you.”

And there it is again—that glint of a smile, the barest crack in the armor. This time, you can see a dimple on his cheeks.

This time, it feels… real.

He leans back on the pillow, staring at the foot of the bed seemingly to gather his thoughts. Then, after a beat, he tells you at last, “I’m… glad you’re here, (Y/N).”

You’re so stunned you almost miss the way your heart jumps.

It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him say your name. The utterance of it, so private and oddly intimate, sends a shiver down your spine. It’s a sudden, topsy-turvy of a feeling that makes your stomach clench. A dizzying heat blooms on your cheeks, and you’re afraid to admit that the rush has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Raiden sighs, not of relief, but a breath held for a very long time now finally released. He holds your gaze for a while, and in that shared look, you know he understands. You’ve accepted his vulnerability, and in return, you offer a simple, perhaps fragile promise:

“Of course,” you say. “I’m your nurse. I won’t go anywhere.”

You glance at the clock when you remember that a heap of charting sheets on the nurses’ station is probably waiting for you.

“I’ll take your vitals later. Give you some time to rest first.”

He doesn’t answer, but the faint lift of his brows is acceptance enough.

You take a step back toward the door while the cool air of the hallway brushes your skin like an invitation to leave. Except your feet don’t obey. Because, when you take one last peek at him, he’s waiting in a way that pins the whole room to him, the gravity of it a physical thing. For a single ridiculous, awful second you’re certain he’s about to finish the sentence you think he’s holding. Just a few words that would change everything—anything to explain why he’s not the first one to pull away earlier, or why he had to apologize for a stupid book.

His lips part, a fraction of an inch, as if he actually might. But then they close, just as slowly, the thought swallowed back into whatever fortress he’s built.

A familiar sense of loss settles in your gut. You’ve learned to carry it after a difficult shift.

You let yourself feel the ridiculous, irrational part of being a nurse. Usually it’s professional sorrow: tidy, contained. Tonight it bloomed into something messier.

You could always fold it away and go back to doing your rounds, log the vitals, exchange polite smiles with other nurses and let other people be the ones to pry. You could file this under “nursing care” and walk away. But when you remember how he watched you, not as a patient observing his nurse but as a person checking to see if you were still there… a tightness in your heart twists, loosens, and leaves behind the hollow sting of a feeling you didn’t realize you were hoping for.

The light from the corridor cuts across the floor as you briefly look away and pause, one hand secured on the doorframe. Then, slowly, you glance back at him—his back already sinking into the pillow, eyelids shut once more like he never spoke at all—and maybe that’s how he wants it. Maybe that’s how he protects himself.

You might be deluding yourself. You might be signing up for more confusion than you bargained for. Yet you hear your own voice, so calm and needlessly brave, that you don’t rehearse the words this time:

“I’ll be here if you want to talk, Raiden.”

And this time, you mean it.