The hospital floor was unusually loud that afternoon—nurses rushing back and forth down the corridors, phones ringing nonstop at the desk, and me standing at the central station trying to power through a mountain of discharge paperwork.
"Dr. Huo," Nurse Beatrice called out as she approached, holding a tablet. "The gala committee just informed us that a live media interview has been added to the schedule."
My pen froze mid-signature. I looked up, frowning. "What? Why?"
Beatrice offered a casual, one-shouldered shrug. "Apparently the key corporate sponsors want more public exposure."
I finished signing the final form, handed the folder back to the ward clerk, and grabbed my phone from my coat pocket. As I walked away from the noisy desk, I pulled up Harley's contact and pressed call.
He answered on the very second ring.
"Hello."
"Harley," I said, my voice coming out tighter and more frantic than I intended. I ducked into an empty supply closet and quietly shut the door behind me, surrounded by shelves of sterile gauze and saline. "Why on earth is there going to be a media interview?"
"Sophie, I need you to calm down."
I drew in a long, slow breath, forcing my racing pulse to steady. "I already reluctantly agreed to give the keynote speech. Now I have to do a live interview, too?"
"You'll be fine," he said evenly, his tone completely unbothered. "I'll be standing right there with you."
My fingers tightened around the edge of my phone. "Is that really a good idea? You know how invasive and persistent reporters can be." A quiet, low chuckle escaped him over the line. "I'm serious, Harley," I murmured, lowering my voice. Why is he taking this so lightly? "You know they're going to bring up our history. They're going to ask about us."
There was a brief, heavy pause on the other end before his tone subtly shifted into something deeper.
"Let me deal with the press," he said calmly. "You just show up as my date."
"Your date?" I repeated, caught completely off guard.
"Unless you don't want to be?"
I sank onto a sturdy cardboard supply box against the wall, my pulse suddenly thumping loudly in my ears. "I—"
A sharp knock rattled the closet door, interrupting me. "Dr. Huo? The patient in room 319 has a quick question regarding her discharge orders."
I closed my eyes for half a second, gathering my thoughts. "Coming!" I called out, before raising the phone back to my ear. "Sorry, Harley. Duty calls. I have to go."
Before he could respond, I ended the call and stepped back out onto the chaotic floor.
That evening, I stood outside Harley's bedroom door, clutching my leather presentation binder against my chest a little tighter than necessary.
I hadn't called him back after my shift, and I still hadn't given him a proper answer regarding the gala. Truthfully, I didn't know how to phrase what I was feeling. After taking a deep, steadying breath, I knocked on the heavy dark wood.
"It's open."
I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
Harley was just walking out of his adjoining bathroom, a white towel draped loosely around his neck, his dark hair damp and tousled. He wasn't wearing a shirt.
A wave of heat rushed straight to my face before I could stop it.
"Is this a bad time?" I asked quickly, forcing my eyes to fixate entirely on his bookshelf.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the subtle, arrogant curve of his lips. "Why are you acting like you've never seen me shirtless before?" he asked, quiet amusement threading through his voice.
I exhaled a long breath and walked farther into the room, lowering myself onto the edge of his mattress while keeping a careful, respectful distance. "That's not the point," I muttered, looking down at my lap. "Can we please just go over my speech?"
He pulled a crisp black t-shirt over his head before walking toward his desk. I pretended not to notice the way my pulse stubbornly refused to settle back into its normal rhythm.
"Let me see it," he said, holding out a hand for the binder.
I handed it over and shifted slightly on the bed, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from my skirt. Harley flipped through the plastic sleeves quietly, scanning each paragraph with practiced, analytical focus. The room felt smaller somehow—quieter and more intimate than usual. Outside the tall windows, the distant lights of the city blinked steadily through the glass.
"You're overthinking the second section," he said after a moment, gesturing to a paragraph near the middle. "Shorten it. Keep it direct. The underlying medical message is strong, so don't dilute it with unnecessary jargon."
I watched him as he spoke, the effortless, calm authority in his tone surprisingly reassuring.
"I'm just not used to reporters," I admitted quietly, leaning back against the bedpost. "Patients don't interrupt you halfway through a sentence to ask about your personal life."
A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. "Reporters aren't that different from difficult patients, Sophie. They just like the sound of their own voices a little more."
I rolled my eyes softly, but the knot in my stomach loosened slightly.
He turned another page. "After the interview concludes, you'll leave the venue with me."
I blinked. "What?"
"You'll leave with me," he repeated, still scanning the paper as casually as if he hadn't just altered the temperature in the room. "As my date."
The word settled heavily in the space between us.
"Harley—"
"It will minimize media speculation," he continued smoothly, perfectly composed. "If the press sees us unified publicly, they'll lose interest in digging for scandalous rumors much faster."
I stood up slowly from the bed. "You make it sound like a cold business strategy."
He finally lifted his gaze from the binder, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine. "It is," he said.
Yet there was something intense lingering in his eyes—something raw and protective that didn't feel professional at all. My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of my skirt.
"And if I say no?" I challenged softly.
His jaw flexed once before smoothing out into an impenetrable mask. "You won't."
The sheer confidence in his voice wasn't rooted in arrogance; it was absolute certainty. The kind of absolute certainty that had always made me feel profoundly safe… and entirely terrified. Part of me bristled at the assumption—at the way he always seemed so sure of what I would do, what I would choose.
And yet… another part of me relaxed. Because when Harley spoke with that level of conviction, it meant he had already anticipated every variable and brought the entire situation under his control. I hated that it still made me feel safe.
"You don't get to decide things for me, Harley," I said quietly.
"I'm not deciding for you," he replied, closing the binder with a soft thud and setting it on the nightstand. "I'm making it easier."
"For whom?"
"For you."
His answer came without a second of hesitation. I swallowed hard, the room suddenly feeling suffocatingly small.
He stood up from his desk, closing the physical distance between us without a sound. He didn't invade my personal space, nor did he touch me; he simply stood near enough that I could feel the radiating warmth of his body.
"You're scared of what they'll ask," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "You're scared they'll bring up four years ago."
My breath caught in my throat.
"And if they do," he continued, his tone dangerously gentle, "you won't be standing up there alone."
There it was. The safety and the trap, perfectly wrapped up in the exact same sentence. I was the first to break eye contact, looking down at the wooden floorboards.
"I'll think about it," I murmured.
His gaze lingered on my face for a second longer before he took a measured step back. "Good," he said softly. He didn't push further. He didn't need to.
I remained standing there for a moment, watching him gather the loose notes from the bed.
"Fine," I said quietly, the word slipping out before I could talk myself out of it. "I'll go as your date."
He didn't react the way I expected. There was no smug smirk, no triumphant look of victory. He simply nodded once, as if that outcome had been written in stone before I even walked into the room.
"Good," he said, turning back toward his desk.
I crossed my arms lightly over my chest. "You're not even going to pretend to ask me nicely?"
He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a sleek, slim object. "I don't need to," he replied calmly.
When he turned back around, a heavy black metal card rested casually between his index and middle fingers. He stepped toward me and held it out.
"For your dress."
I stared down at the credit card. "Harley, no—"
"It's an elite formal gala, Sophie," he said smoothly, as if explaining elementary arithmetic. "You'll need something appropriate for the cameras."
"I have a salary now. I can buy my own dress."
"I know you can," he replied evenly, not pulling the card back an inch. "Use it anyway."
There was no force in his voice, no angry insistence—just that undeniable, quiet certainty. The black card remained extended between us. After a long second of hesitation, I reached out and took it. Our fingers brushed briefly, a sharp spark running up my arm before we separated.
"You are completely unbelievable," I muttered, shaking my head.
A faint, rare smile ghosted across his lips.
"You'll look beautiful in anything," he said casually, turning back to his paperwork. "Just don't pick something boring."
I rolled my eyes, slipping the sleek card safely into my binder sleeve. As I reached the door, I paused with my hand on the cool metal handle. "Harley."
He glanced up from his desk.
"Thank you."
His guarded expression shifted, softening almost imperceptibly in the warm light of the desk lamp. "Don't overthink it, Dr. Huo."
I stepped out into the quiet hallway and pulled his door shut behind me, the black card tucked safely in my hands and my pulse far less steady than I cared to admit.
Because accepting that card wasn't just about buying a gown for a charity event. It was about choosing to stand right beside him under the blinding lights of the press—and for the first time since I stepped off that plane, that prospect didn't feel impossible at all.