Westbridge never really slept. Even at night, when the world outside slowed down and the city dimmed to a hush, the hospital kept breathing in its own rhythm soft beeps echoing through distant corridors, low murmurs passed between nurses during the change of shift, fluorescent lights dimmed just enough to fool the body but never the mind. It was a place that refused to rest, because resting meant lowering your guard. And Westbridge didn't believe in safety.
Nora sat curled in the corner of the break room, her back against the cold wall and a thin porcelain cup resting between her hands. The coffee inside had gone cold a long time ago, but she held it anyway. She wasn't looking at the tablet screen in front of her. Her gaze was distant, locked on a memory printed in grainy ink. The shape of a jawline. A name with no last name. An initial that was supposed to mean nothing.
She hadn't spoken to Rowan since yesterday. Since she saw him walk out of the director's office looking like a man who had just torn something loose from under his own skin. He hadn't reached out, and she hadn't either. But somehow, he'd been everywhere since. In the air. In the quiet. In the way the shadows shifted just a little slower behind her back. It wasn't paranoia. Not anymore.
It was knowing. The kind that twisted inside you like a dull blade, whispering questions you weren't ready to answer. She had wanted to believe she was wrong. That the name in the file, the photo wedged between forgotten pages, had been a coincidence. But the lines were starting to blur faster than she could draw new ones.
The door creaked behind her.
She didn't turn. She didn't have to.
Rowan.
The air always shifted when he entered a room. Like the room itself knew he carried something heavy, and it braced for the weight. He didn't speak at first. She could feel him watching her from the doorway, unsure if he was allowed to step closer. As if the space between them had changed and he was still waiting for a map.
Eventually, his footsteps moved. Soft, slow, deliberate. Like crossing a minefield he didn't know the layout of.
"You're avoiding me," he said, voice low.
"I'm working," she answered, not lifting her eyes from the untouched screen.
She took a sip of the coffee out of reflex. It was bitter and cold, but it gave her something to hold on to. Something that didn't look like him.
He didn't sit. He stayed just a few feet away, his arms folded not defensive, but closed. He looked tired, not in the physical sense, but tired of waiting. Of not being asked.
"You're sitting in the dark, staring at nothing," Rowan replied. His voice wasn't accusing. It wasn't even irritated. It was searching. Calm. But there was something beneath it. An edge, maybe. Or a hope.
"I'm not here to fight," he added. "I just want to understand what I did wrong."
That was what made her finally meet his eyes.
There was something in his expression that undid her a little. Something open. Quiet. Vulnerable. It wasn't a trap. It was real.
"Then why are you here?" she asked. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. "Because this isn't about you not understanding. It's about me not knowing what to believe."
She didn't say what she had seen. Not yet. She didn't tell him about the grainy photo, the initials tucked under a death certificate, the trail of silence that led back to him. But the weight of it hung between them anyway. The air was full of it.
He pulled out the chair across from her and sat, elbows resting on his knees like he was trying to stay grounded.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The vending machine buzzed softly behind them. Somewhere in the distance, someone paged the ER.
Then, Rowan said quietly, "You looked at me differently yesterday."
Nora didn't reply. She kept her eyes on the cup, tracing the rim with her fingertip like it could spell out an excuse.
"I had a lot on my mind," she finally said.
"That wasn't it," he answered. "It was something else."
He leaned forward slightly, not enough to breach her space, but just enough to make it clear that he was trying to meet her halfway. To reach something she'd hidden.
"Did I say something?" he asked. "Or did I remind you of someone else?"
The question landed hard. Her chest tightened.
"Maybe I saw something I didn't want to see," she said, barely above a whisper.
"In me?"
"In everything."
The silence that followed was thick. Not angry. Just heavy. Like neither of them knew how to carry what had just been said.
Rowan nodded slowly. Not with understanding, but with resignation. As if he had been bracing for this moment longer than she had.
Nora stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the tile. She needed space. Needed air. Needed anything but this look he was giving her.
Rowan stood too, out of instinct. They ended up face to face. Too close. The kind of closeness that held warmth and danger all in the same breath.
She didn't step forward. Neither did he. He didn't reach for her. He just waited. Letting her choose.
"I don't know what's real with you," she said.
"You don't have to," Rowan replied gently. "You just have to let it be real."
For one moment one flicker of heart and breath it felt like something might shift. Like they might meet somewhere in the middle, unarmed.
But Nora stepped back.
Controlled. Composed. Guarded.
"I have patients to check."
He didn't try to stop her. He didn't move.
But as her hand touched the door, he spoke one last time.
"I'm not leaving, Nora."
She didn't turn around.
She didn't respond.
But her heart didn't calm for a long, long time.