Jillian adjusted the monitor and scribbled a final note on the chart. Her tone was calm, but something in her gaze lingered.
Jillian (softly, almost like a reminder): "You need to take care of your health. Rest more."
Ethan watched her, eyes unreadable. "I will," he said after a moment, though it sounded more like a promise than a plan.
There was a pause. One heartbeat too long.
Then Jillian nodded, professional mask slipping back in place. "I'll check in with your assistant before I leave."
She turned, but for a second—just before the door clicked shut—Ethan spoke again, quiet and unfinished.
Ethan: "Jillian… about last time—"
But she was already gone.
Ethan sat back against the pillows, the hum of machines now quieter than the storm in his mind.
His fingers traced the edge of the sheet absently, his gaze fixed on the door she'd just walked out of.
"Is she really just doing her job… or is she playing the long game?" he thought.
He remembered her touch—gentle, sure. Not seductive. Not cold. Just… sincere.
But sincerity could be a mask too, couldn't it?
He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.
"She saved me once, then disappeared. Now she shows up again, like fate has a twisted sense of humor."
Was she still the Jillian he once knew? Or had she changed, learned to wield her charm differently—subtly, carefully?
Ethan leaned back, brows furrowed.
"Is she a good girl, or is she just playing the hard-to-get card?"
He hated not knowing.
And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Outside the suite, Charles had been waiting all along, glancing up the moment Jillian stepped out.
"Dr. Jillian," he said cautiously, "do you… know my boss?"
Jillian paused, her hand lightly resting on the folder she carried. Her face didn't give much away, but her voice was calm.
"He's just an acquaintance."
Charles studied her a moment longer, as if trying to read between her words, but decided not to press further.
"I can arrange a car to take you back to the hospital," he offered.
Jillian gave a small shake of her head. "Thank you, but I'll take a taxi. It's not far."
Charles nodded slowly. "Alright, if there's anything else you need, just let me know."
She offered him a polite smile, then turned and walked toward the elevator. Each step echoed softly in the silent corridor.
The suite had fallen into silence, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside Ethan's bed. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, brushing across the sharp lines of his face, now slightly pale but composed. The warmth of Jillian's presence had faded with the quiet click of the door, but her scent still lingered faintly in the room.
Ethan shifted slowly, his body still aching, but his mind sharper than ever. He reached for his phone on the side table, unlocking it with practiced ease. Instead of opening messages or checking emails, his fingers paused over a secure folder—one buried beneath layers of encryption. A slight hesitation, then a press.
Jillian's profile opened on the screen.
A list of credentials, accolades, recent surgery schedules, even photographs from hospital events. Her image smiled faintly in one—the calm, brilliant doctor. Another showed her exiting the hospital late at night, coat draped over her arm, eyes tired but alert. Not a hair out of place.
He stared at the images for a long while, his thumb gliding over the screen.
"She's been busy…" he murmured to himself, voice low. "Top of her field now."
Another folder opened—surveillance stills. Dated entries. Reports. He had never stopped watching… not out of malice, but out of something he couldn't name. Maybe guilt. Maybe longing. Maybe both.
He leaned back against the pillows, the phone still in hand, and whispered into the quiet:
"You were never just an acquaintance to me…"
His eyes lingered on the most recent image—Jillian in the hospital, hands deep in her lab coat pockets, standing in front of a whiteboard with surgical notes scribbled across it.
There was pride in his eyes.
But also fear.
She had walked into his life again, unplanned, uninvited… yet somehow, exactly when he needed her most.
*****
The suite had fallen into silence, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside Ethan's bed. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, brushing across the sharp lines of his face, now slightly pale but composed. The warmth of Jillian's presence had faded with the quiet click of the door, but her scent still lingered faintly in the room.
Ethan shifted slowly, his body still aching, but his mind sharper than ever. He reached for his phone on the side table, unlocking it with practiced ease. Instead of opening messages or checking emails, his fingers paused over a secure folder—one buried beneath layers of encryption. A slight hesitation, then a press.
Jillian's profile opened on the screen.
A list of credentials, accolades, recent surgery schedules, even photographs from hospital events. Her image smiled faintly in one—the calm, brilliant doctor. Another showed her exiting the hospital late at night, coat draped over her arm, eyes tired but alert. Not a hair out of place.
He stared at the images for a long while, his thumb gliding over the screen.
"She's been busy…" he murmured to himself, voice low. "Top of her field now."
Another folder opened—surveillance stills. Dated entries. Reports. He had never stopped watching… not out of malice, but out of something he couldn't name. Maybe guilt. Maybe longing. Maybe both.
He leaned back against the pillows, the phone still in hand, and whispered into the quiet:
"You were never just an acquaintance to me…"
His eyes lingered on the most recent image—Jillian in the hospital, hands deep in her lab coat pockets, standing in front of a whiteboard with surgical notes scribbled across it.
There was pride in his eyes.
But also fear.
She had walked into his life again, unplanned, uninvited… yet somehow, exactly when he needed her most.
Ethan's thumb hovered over the message draft.
"Thank you for today. You didn't have to come tomorrow."
It was short. Polite. Distant enough to protect him. But the moment he read it back, he sighed—then deleted it.
What was the point?
She was always the one who gave her best… even when it hurt her.
He leaned forward slowly, feeling the tug of healing stitches and a faint throb in his chest. He set the phone down, but only for a second. As if compelled, he picked it back up and tapped into the hospital's internal database—her profile, again.
Dr. Jillian Smith.
Degrees. Specializations. Awards. Patient survival rates. Letters of recommendation from international institutions.
He scrolled further, eyes tracing each line with something deeper than curiosity.
He only stared, caught between admiration, respect and something more dangerous—longing.
The phone screen dimmed, but he didn't move. Not yet.