The morning had been quiet—too quiet for the hospital.
That uneasy kind of quiet that always comes before something changes.
I'd finished rounds, updated orders, and checked vitals twice. Ethan was sitting up now, spine straighter, color creeping back into his cheeks. I'd started calling it progress. His father called it not good enough.
He arrived like a storm in a three-piece suit—no knock, no warning.
"Dr. Maren," he said, voice clipped. "When do we get some real answers?"
I looked up from the chart, already bracing. "Good morning, Mr. Connors. Ethan's recovering within expected parameters—"
"Expected parameters?" he barked. "You can't tell me when my son will speak, or walk, or remember who he is! Why don't you take your little ass and get a real doctor in here? Someone who knows what they're doing."
The air left the room.
Ethan's mother gasped softly.
My pulse spiked, but I didn't flinch.
Kill them with kindness. Don't engage.
They're scared. It's their only child.
"Sir," I said evenly, "if you have a concern, I can page my department chair. But you'll need to lower your voice in my ICU."
He stepped closer, all fury, money, and control. "Don't tell me how to—"
"No."
The word sliced through everything.
It wasn't mine.
It came from the bed.
Ethan's voice—hoarse, ragged, real.
His mother froze mid-breath. His father turned like he'd been slapped.
Ethan blinked, eyes fixed on his father. "No," he repeated, quieter, but stronger this time.
For a second, none of us breathed.
"Ethan?" I whispered.
He turned his head toward me—slow, deliberate. A trace of steel flickered behind the swelling, the bruises, the tubes.
God, that look. Still the same man under all the damage.
His mother pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "He spoke…"
His father straightened, scrambling for control. "You—you can talk?"
Ethan's lips curved, the barest hint of a smirk. "Guess so."
I saw pride in his father's eyes, but Ethan wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking at me.
That stare hit like an electric current.
I paged for backup before I said something I'd regret. "Nurse, please call Dr. McCalister."
If his father wanted another opinion, he could have it.
Dr. Jonathan McCalister arrived ten minutes later—polished, confident, the kind of man administrators adored. Within two minutes, he and Mr. Connors were in deep conversation—two alphas circling the same prize.
I stood by the monitors, documenting Ethan's vitals, pretending to be invisible.
McCalister echoed my exact report, line for line.
Mr. Connors nodded approvingly. "Good. Because I've decided I want my son home. We'll bring in private therapists and nurses. Money's not a problem."
McCalister hesitated. "That would be highly irregular, sir. Medically unwise."
"Not a problem," Mr. Connors repeated, like cash could rewrite biology.
Then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—he added, "What about her?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"If she came with him," he said. "He responds to her. Have her at the house twenty-four seven. Would that satisfy you, Doctor?"
McCalister faltered. "That's—well, that's not exactly—"
Heat crawled up my neck. "I'm standing right here."
Ethan's gaze flicked between us, expression unreadable but very much awake now.
McCalister cleared his throat. "Dr. Maren, can we speak privately?"
"Of course," I said, smile tight, voice steady. "Follow me to my office."
I turned to go—and caught Ethan watching me.
His eyes were sharp. Awake. Aware.
He tilted his head slightly, that familiar arrogance bleeding back through the morphine haze.
The corner of his mouth lifted—lazy, deliberate, devastating.
A smirk.
Goddamn him.
Half-dead or not, Ethan Connors still knew exactly how to make my blood boil.
The hallway outside the ICU was colder than it needed to be. I walked fast, McCalister trailing behind me like a nervous intern.
"Dr. Maren," he started, "you have to understand Mr. Connors' position. His son's recovery is—"
"—none of his business," I cut in. "Not medically."
"Rachel," he said, dropping the title like we were friends. "He's scared."
"They're all scared. Doesn't give him license to insult my staff."
He sighed. "You're one of our best, but… maybe tread lightly. He's powerful."
"So am I," I said, deadpan. "In this hallway, at least."
He blinked, unsure how to answer.
"Tell admin to hold any transfer paperwork," I said. "If Ethan leaves before I clear him, they can handle the lawsuit."
McCalister nodded and escaped, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a pounding heartbeat.
What are you doing, girl? Ugh. We are so far beyond doctor-patient right now.
When I went back into Ethan's room, his parents were gone.
Just him and the machines.
His eyes tracked me immediately. "You still chew on your pen when you're mad," he rasped.
My stomach dropped.
That was an old habit—one I hadn't had in years.
"You remember that?" I asked carefully.
He frowned. "Why wouldn't I?" His gaze moved over me like he was trying to decode time itself. "You're mad at me again, huh? What'd I do this time—forget to pick up dinner from The Grain Shed?"
I froze. That restaurant hadn't existed in nearly eight years. Burned down after he left.
"Ethan… what's the last thing you remember?"
He hesitated. "You. That night, you told me you'd been offered a fellowship in Denver. I told you not to go."
He frowned deeper. "Did you go? Or did we figure it out?"
My throat tightened. Oh, God.
"Ethan," I said softly, "what year do you think it is?"
He looked at the clock, then back at me, confused. "2017."
My knees nearly gave out. I caught the edge of the counter.
"Rachel?" he asked, the concern in his voice so familiar it hurt. "Hey—what's wrong?"
Everything.
The man lying in that bed had no idea he'd broken me.
No idea we hadn't spoken in almost eight years.
No idea that he'd left me for someone else, or that she'd died, or that the fallout had ruined us both.
In his head, we were still us.
And in mine, we were a scar that never healed.
I took a slow breath, forcing my voice to be steady. "You've been in an accident, Ethan. You hit your head. You're in the hospital."
He blinked, processing. "Okay. But you're here. So… we're good?"
I couldn't speak. I just stared at him—this man who had shattered me once and now looked at me like I was the center of his world again.
He smiled faintly. "You look different. Older, maybe. But still you." His hand twitched against the sheet. "Come here, Rach."
I took a step back. "You should rest."
He tilted his head, confused. "Rach, what's going on?"
My voice broke around the truth. "You've lost eight years."
Silence.
The machines hummed.
His mother's abandoned coffee cup steamed in the corner.
"Eight years?" he repeated. "That's… not possible."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Your memory—everything after 2017—it's gone."
He stared at me, searching for a crack in my expression. "So… we're not—"
"No," I said quickly. "We're not." The confusion in his eyes cut straight through me. "What happened?"
I swallowed hard. "That's not my story to tell right now. You just need to heal."
"Rach," he whispered, voice breaking. "Don't lie to me. I can still tell when you're lying."
"Please don't call me Rach." I turned away before he could see the tears burning behind my eyes.
By the time I left the room, my heart was a riot.
He remembered everything except the part where he destroyed me.
And now, to him, I was still the woman he loved.
The cruelest part?
Some small, stupid piece of me wanted to believe that version again.