The noon light slanted through the blinds in pale, lazy stripes across my bed when Dr. Kieran came in again. He moved quieter this time—no clipboard, no chart, just the soft click of the door and the faint scent of his cologne that always reminded me of clean linen and something faintly cedar-like.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, dark eyes scanning me first as a doctor, then lingering as… something else.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low, the caring edge unmistakable now that the professional mask had cracked earlier.
I managed a small nod, throat too tight to speak at first. My eyes were still puffy from the morning's tears; I hated that he'd see me like this again.
He studied me another moment, then stepped closer.
"You must be bored with all that hospital food," he said quietly. "Let's take you out. For something real."
I blinked, stunned. "Out…?"
He was already lowering the side rail, movements careful but decisive. "Just for an hour. Somewhere quiet. Good food. Fresh air." His gaze flicked to the oxygen cannula, then back to me. "I'll handle everything."
I couldn't speak. My heart fluttered—fear, disbelief, a tiny, dangerous spark of hope all at once. "But… the lines, the monitors—"
"I've got it."
And he did.
With practiced, gentle hands he disconnected the telemetry leads, taped the IV port securely so it wouldn't tug, adjusted the portable oxygen concentrator slung over the wheelchair he'd already wheeled in.
Every motion was precise, unhurried, but there was something almost reverent in the way he touched me—only where necessary, always asking with his eyes first.
When he lifted the nasal cannula to slip it under my nose again after a brief adjustment, his knuckles brushed my cheek.
He froze for half a second, then continued like nothing happened, but I saw the faint color rise along his jaw.
He helped me into the chair—strong arms under mine, careful not to jar anything—and draped a soft hospital blanket over my lap.
Then he shrugged off his white coat, folding it neatly over his arm.
Underneath was a simple charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with quiet strength. Without the coat he looked younger, less professional. A young handsome man.
He wheeled me out through a staff corridor—no main lobby, no curious stares—then into the physicians' parking lot.
His car was a sleek, dark sedan, understated but expensive. He opened the passenger door, helped me transfer with the same careful strength, buckled me in himself, made sure the oxygen tubing wouldn't catch.
When he slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, the space between us felt suddenly intimate—too small, too warm.
His shoulder was only inches from mine. I could smell his cologne more clearly now, feel the heat radiating off him. He glanced at me once, eyes softer than usual.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
I nodded, cheeks burning. "This… feels like a dream."
A very small, almost imperceptible curve touched his mouth. "Good. That's the point."
He drove smoothly, windows cracked just enough for cool air to slip in.
The city slid past—normal people walking, laughing, living—and for once I didn't feel completely separate from them. Not with him beside me.
The restaurant was small, expensive, tucked behind a row of trees.
Private cabins instead of open tables. He'd clearly called ahead; the hostess recognized him immediately, led us to a secluded booth at the back—curtained off, low lighting, a single candle flickering between us.
He helped me settle into the cushioned seat, adjusted the oxygen concentrator so it sat discreetly beside me, then slid in across from me.
No white coat. No stethoscope. Just Kieran Voss —handsome, reserved, watching me with that quiet intensity that made my pulse skip even though my heart wasn't supposed to be capable of skipping anymore.
The waiter brought menus.
Kieran ordered for both of us—soft, simple things: creamy tomato bisque, grilled fish with lemon butter, roasted vegetables, nothing heavy.
"Nothing that'll tax your system," he said when the waiter left, voice low. "But something that actually tastes like food."
I stared at him across the candlelight. "Why are you doing this?"
He looked down at the table for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of the linen napkin. When he spoke again his voice was quieter, almost rough.
"Because I couldn't stand the thought of you spending another day believing no one sees you."
He lifted his eyes to mine. "I see you, Blossom. Every day. Your pain. But also your kindness. The way you thank the nurses for ice chips like they've given you gold. The way you never complain, even when I know it hurts so much you can barely breathe."
My throat closed. Tears pricked again.
"I don't want your pity," I whispered.
"It's not pity." His voice stayed steady, but there was something raw beneath it. "It's… respect. Admiration. And something else I'm not very good at naming."
The food arrived. He cut my fish into small pieces without asking—gentlemanly, careful—then pushed the plate toward me.
When I hesitated he simply waited, patient, until I took the first bite.
"Good?" he asked softly.
I nodded, eyes stinging. "It's… perfect."
We ate slowly. He didn't rush me.
Every time I paused to breathe he waited, never looking impatient, never glancing at his watch.
When a small cough rattled through me he reached towards me.
The cough left my chest tight and aching, a thin rasp scraping through my throat.
Before I could even reach for the glass of water beside me, Kieran was already moving.
"Easy," he murmured.
One hand settled lightly against my back, warm through the thin hospital sweater I was wearing. His palm moved slowly, steady and reassuring, rubbing gentle circles the way someone might calm a frightened child.
"Slow breaths, Blossom. In… and out."
I followed his voice, focusing on the quiet rhythm of it.
The coughing eased.
When it finally stopped, he handed me the glass of water , his fingers brushing mine as I took it. My hands were trembling slightly, but his remained steady.
"You alright?" he asked again, softer this time.
I nodded, though my chest still felt fragile.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, embarrassed. "I'm ruining the lunch."
His brow furrowed instantly.
"You didn't ruin anything."
He reached for the napkin and gently dabbed at the corner of my mouth where the cough had left a faint tear track down my cheek.
"You breathing is the only thing that matters right now."
The candlelight flickered between us, casting warm shadows across his face. Up close like this, I could see the tiny crease between his brows, the concern he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.