There was a new captain.
He believed in patterns.
"Consistency builds recovery," he said once during briefing, tapping the board with a marker. "A stable caregiver improves outcomes. Confusion slows healing."
No one argued with him.
Least of all Isabella.
That was how it started.
Not fate.
Not coincidence.
Procedure.
---
"Room Four again," the orderly said one morning, handing Isabella the chart.
She didn't react.
She never did.
But her fingers tightened—just slightly—around the file.
"Yes," she said evenly.
---
Xavier noticed the pattern before she did.
"You again," he said the third day in a row, watching her enter the room with her usual calm precision.
Isabella sanitized her hands. "Good morning, Sergeant."
"Is it?" he asked.
She glanced at the monitors. "Vitals say so."
He smiled faintly. "You always dodge questions like that?"
She adjusted his IV. "Only unnecessary ones."
He chuckled, then winced. "You're different from the others."
"How so?"
"They treat me like a problem," he said. "You treat me like… work."
She paused, then met his eyes. "That's because this is work."
Something about that answer pleased him.
---
Days passed.
Weeks.
His recovery was slow but steady.
Her presence became routine—medication, wound care, quiet check-ins that neither of them acknowledged as something more.
Sometimes they talked.
Not about the past.
Not about names.
But about small things.
He liked strong coffee.
She preferred tea.
He hated early mornings.
She thrived in them.
There was comfort in the simplicity.
Dangerous comfort.
---
One afternoon, while she changed his bandage, he asked casually, "So… Rossi. Italian?"
Her hands stilled.
"Yes."
"Family still there?"
She resumed her work. "Some."
"Parents?"
"Yes."
"Siblings?"
Her jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"Why are you asking this?" she said.
He shrugged. "Just curious."
"You're asking a lot," she replied coolly.
He frowned. "Is that a crime now?"
"No," she said. "But it's not appropriate."
Silence fell between them.
Heavy.
---
Later that evening, he broke it.
"You don't talk about yourself," he said. "At all."
"That's not my job."
"I don't even know if you're married."
Her hands clenched the chart. "I'm here to treat you. Not to be known by you."
That made him angry.
"I'm not some stranger on a table," he snapped. "I'm a person."
"And I'm not your confidant," she shot back.
The words were sharper than intended.
They hung there, exposed.
Xavier exhaled slowly. "Did I do something wrong?"
Isabella looked away.
"Yes," she said quietly. "You're getting too close."
---
The next morning, the captain reassigned nothing.
Still Room Four.
Still Isabella.
Protocol.
---
They were quieter after that.
Professional.
Careful.
But something had shifted.
Distance didn't erase closeness—it sharpened it.
Xavier noticed how her voice softened when he was in pain.
Isabella noticed how he waited for her steps in the hallway.
They didn't speak about family again.
But every silence carried it.
---
One evening, as she finished her round, Xavier spoke without looking at her.
"I don't know why," he said, "but when you're here… I feel like I'm remembering something I was forced to forget."
Her breath caught.
She said nothing.
He nodded to himself. "Guess that's just trauma."
She turned toward the door.
"Good night, Sergeant."
"Good night, Nurse Rossi."
---
Outside the room, Isabella stood still for a long moment.
Assigned.
Again and again.
Fate disguised as procedure.
And somewhere deep inside her, a truth she had buried for years stirred painfully awake:
This time, distance wouldn't protect her.
And closeness—
Might destroy them both.