The next morning, I opened my eyes slowly, the room still dim with pre-dawn gray. The first thing I saw was him.
Dr. Kieran Voss—Kieran—slumped in the chair beside my bed, head resting on the mattress edge, dark hair falling forward over his closed eyes. His arms were folded under his cheek like a makeshift pillow; his white coat was draped over the back of the chair, sleeves still rolled from last night. He hadn't gone home. After a full day of emergencies, after holding me through the pain spike, after touching me like I was something precious—he'd stayed. Right here. All night.
My chest tightened—not the tumor this time, something softer, deeper. Tears welled instantly. He cared. He actually cared. No one had ever stayed like this. Not my father who left without goodbye. Not my mother locked away. Not even the friends who tried so hard but still had lives to return to. But Kieran… he hadn't left me.
A sob escaped before I could stop it.
His eyes snapped open. For a second he looked disoriented—hair mussed, stubble darker—then he focused on me. Saw the tears. Sat up instantly.
"Hey," he said, voice rough with sleep, instantly gentle. "Hey, Blossom—what's wrong?"
I couldn't speak at first. Just shook my head, tears spilling faster. He reached out—slow, careful—and cupped my cheek, thumb brushing the wet trail.
"I'm here," he murmured. "I'm right here. Talk to me."
"You… stayed," I choked out. "All night. You didn't go home."
His expression softened further—almost pained. "Of course I stayed."
"But you must be exhausted," I whispered. "You worked all day. You—"
"I'm fine," he cut in quietly. "You were in pain. I wasn't leaving you like that." His thumb kept stroking—slow, soothing circles. "Don't cry, baby. Please."
I leaned into his palm, closing my eyes. "No one's ever… stayed for me."
He exhaled shakily. "Then let me be the first. And the last."
Later that day—mid-afternoon—the door burst open with familiar noise.
The girls spilled in—lively, laughing, arms full of snacks and magazines—Camila leading, Isabella twirling, Aveline carrying tea, Ayla grinning. But behind them…
Eliot.
Tall, dark-haired, gentle-eyed Eliot—the one who'd run from me, who'd walked out without looking back.
I froze. My heart lurched painfully.
Camila noticed first. "Blossom! Look who wanted to see you!"
Eliot stepped forward, hands in his pockets, sheepish smile. "Hi," he said softly. "I… I really missed you. I wanted to talk. If that's okay."
I stared. Doubt flooded me. Missed me? After he fled? After he said my sickness scared him? I didn't believe it. The girls must have dragged him here—begged him, convinced him. Pity. Again.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, voice sweet as ever. He reached for my hand—gentle, careful. "I've been thinking about you every day. I hated how I left things. I was scared, but… I miss you, Blossom. I really do."
Camila beamed. "See? He's been texting us nonstop. He wanted to come sooner, but we told him to wait until you were stronger."
Isabella nodded enthusiastically. "He's basically your boyfriend now, just give him a chance . He keeps asking how you are, if you need anything. He's sweet like that."
Aveline smiled softly. "He feels terrible. He said he couldn't stop thinking about the garden date. How kind you were."
Ayla added, "Yeah, he's been moping. We figured bringing him here would cheer both of you up."
Eliot lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles.
I was startled.
The door opened wider.
Kieran stepped in—chart in hand, mid-stride—then stopped dead.
He saw Eliot's lips on my hand.
His face didn't change much—still that calm, controlled mask—but I saw it: the flash of hurt in his dark eyes, raw and unguarded for half a second before he locked it down. His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed once around the chart.
The girls turned—bright, oblivious.
"Doctor!" Camila chirped. "Look—Eliot came to see Blossom! He really wanted to talk to her."
Isabella jumped in. "Please, Doctor, can he stay a little longer? He feels so bad about before. He just wants to make it right. He's basically her boyfriend now —he keeps saying how much he misses her, how he wants to be here for her."
Aveline added quietly, "He missed her. Truly. He's been asking about her every day."
Ayla nodded. "Please? Just a few more minutes? He's really sorry. He wants to be with her."
Kieran looked at me.
I looked back—guilty, aching. I knew what this looked like to him. Another man touching me. Kissing my hand. Calling himself my boyfriend in front of everyone. While he—the one who'd stayed all night, who'd held me through pain, who'd let me touch his skin—was standing there like an outsider.
His throat worked once.
"Okay," he said. Voice flat. Quiet. Heartbroken. "Take the time you need."
He turned—slow, mechanical—and walked out.
The door closed softly behind him.
The girls didn't notice the crack in his voice. They kept talking—happy, encouraging Eliot, telling him to sit closer, to hold my hand again.
But I felt it.
The crack in my chest widened.
I knew that look. I'd worn it myself too many times.
He was hurt.
And I was the reason. I feel terrible.