"Fucking hell," I muttered under my breath.
My eyes skimmed the note again as I gnawed on my bottom lip. Heat crept up my neck. I crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash can beside the nurses' station.
It hit the rim.
Of course it did.
I rolled my eyes, walked over and retrieved the paper, along with what was left of my dignity and shove it properly into the bin.
"You alright?" Julie asked, already packing up her things now that her shift was over and mine had just begun. "I've never seen someone look that offended by flowers."
"It's from him. Again." I picked up the vase of pink tulips, examining them like they were a biohazard.
I didn't even like tulips.
"Oh." Julie made a face of immediate understanding. "Then leave it by John's bed."
She shrugged into her windcheater with impressive speed, like the building might explode if she didn't exit within the next thirty seconds. I couldn't blame her. Night shifts in the emergency ward were unpredictable. One multi-car accident and suddenly, you're drowning in stretchers and screaming relatives.
"John?" I frowned, mentally flipping through the patient list.
"New one," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Came in this morning. No ID. Police are calling him John Doe."
"That's comforting."
"Gets better," she added. "He was dressed in some wartorn Roman general costume. Full armor. Red cape. The whole theatrical disaster. Probably some historical renanctment gone wrong, or a very committed party guest."
Roman general.
I stilled for half a second before I could stop myself.
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Dead serious. You'll see." She grinned. "I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. And he's hot, too."
"Don't," I said, my grip tightening slightly around the vase.
"Relax," she said, already halfway out the door. "He's stable for now. Multiple lacerations, blunt-force trauma, mild smoke inhalation. Whoever he is, he's lucky to be alive."
Smoke inhalation.
Something in my chest tightened, brief and inexplicable.
"Anyways, have fun," Julie called.
The automatic doors slid shut behind her, leaving me alone with the hum of fluorescent lights, the scent of antiseptic...and a vase of pink tulips I didn't want.
I stared at them for a long moment.
God, they looked expensive. It felt almost criminal to let them wilt simply out of spite.
So I picked up the vase and made my way to John Doe's room.
Of course, he was already dressed in a hospital gown.
He lay in one of the ICU beds, fresh out of surgery, a thin curtain the only thing separating him from the other patients. Monitors hummed softly around him. He has a steady heart rate, stable oxygen saturation. Miraculously stable, considering how he had arrived.
Dr. Madakwe was at his bedside, reviewing the chart when he noticed me lingering by his bed with a vase of pink tulips in my hands.
"Are those from his family?" he asked, nodding toward the flowers as he prepared to leave.
Dr. Madakwe is one of the best surgeons in the county. He's in his mid-fifties, bald and is perpetually composed with a no-nonsense efficiency that made the residents quake.
He hadn't needed to take John Doe's case. Trauma had already been assigned. But he had stepped in anyway. Pro bono.
That said everything about him.
"Sadly, no," I said, adjusting my grip on the vase. "They're mine. I just thought he might appreciate them more."
He gave a small shrug. "Police are still trying to locate his next of kin. Anyone would do at this point. Family. Friends." He glanced back at the unconscious man. "They've come up with nothing. It's like..."
He trailed off.
I stepped closer to the bed.
There was something about him.
Dark hair, still damp from surgery, curling slightly at the ends. A thick beard shadowing the lower half of his face. A nose that had clearly been broken at least once. Not recently, but badly enough to leave it crooked. His jaw's sharp too, despite the swelling.
He didn't look like someone who belonged under this fluorescent hospital lighting.
"Like he came from another time," I murmured.
Dr. Madakwe huffed softly. "Yes. Exactly."
He slipped his pen into his coat pocket. "Anyway, I've got three more post-ops waiting. Nice tulips, by the way. Didn't know you liked them."
"I don't."
He paused mid-step. "From him again?"
"Yes."
A knowing look crossed his face. "That man should know when to give up."
"If only it were that simple."
Dr. Madakwe chuckled under his breath. "Well. I'll leave you to it."
And just like that, it was only me...and John Doe.
I walked to the side of the bed and placed the flowers on the small table beside it. The contrast was almost absurd. Something soft and delicate beside a man carved out of angles and scars.
"Elena."
I froze, then turned at the sound of that familiar voice.
Garrick stood at the foot of the bed like he belonged there. White long-sleeved shirt. Dark trousers. Those sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins that lined his forearms I had once traced absentmindedly on lazy Sunday mornings.
"Garrick."
His gaze flicked to the tulips. "I see you got the flowers."
"Yes." I folded my arms across my chest. "Thank you. But you should stop sending them here. People know we've broken up, and it's getting embarrassing. For the both of us."
I stepped past him, intending to leave. But John's bed was positioned near the wall and Garrick stood between it and the narrow exit.
He caught my wrist.
I yanked my arm free harder than I meant to.
"Don't," I warned.
His jaw tightened. "Please, Elena. Can we talk?"
"There's nothing left to say."
"On the contrary—"
"No," I cut him off. "There isn't."
The curtain shifted faintly with the ICU ventilation. Machines continued their indifferent beeping around us.
Garrick lowered his voice. "You're overreacting."
A hollow laugh escaped me. "Overreacting."
"I told you, it didn't mean anything."
"There it is again."
He ran a hand through his blond hair, the same practiced gesture he used in times when he wanted to appear sincere. "It was a mistake."
"A mistake," I repeated. "You don't accidentally sleep with your partner, Garrick. Not when you're engaged."
Silence.
There it was. The truth hanging between us, sterile and undeniable.
He exhaled slowly. "Look, we were drunk. We had just closed a tough case. It was one night."
"You lied to me for months."
His mouth opened, then closed.
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and wondered how the hell did I manage to be with a man like this. Pathetic.
"I deserved honesty," I said quietly. "Especially from the man I was about to marry."
He shifted, uncomfortable now. "I'm trying to fix this."
"Don't bother."
Another beat of silence passed before he glanced at the bed.
"You'll be seeing more of me anyway."
My spine stiffened. "What does that mean?"
Garrick gestured toward John Doe. "We were the ones who brought him here."
My thoughts stalled. "What?"
"Josephine and I," he said, too casually. "We got a call from one of the archaeologists in that Roman site."
"He just lied there," Garrick continued. "Unconscious. Bleeding. Dressed like that."
He gave a faint, incredulous shake of his head. "We called it in and I rode with him in the ambulance. Given the state he was in, this hospital was the closest trauma center."
My stomach twisted.
"So you chose this hospital," I said slowly.
"It made sense."
My gaze moved to the man lying unconscious in bed. Dark hair. Scarred skin. A face that looked like it was carved from another century.
Maybe I should ask if Anna knew about this. After all, she was in charge of that site as of a few months ago. She would know something.
"You didn't think that was worth mentioning?" I asked.
"I didn't think it mattered."
Everything mattered.
The beeping of the cardiac monitor seemed louder now. Steadier.
Garrick stepped closer, lowering his voice again. "Elena...maybe this is a sign."
"The fuck?"
"That we're not done."
A dry smile touched my lips. "Oh, rest assured, we are."
Behind us, the monitor gave a sudden sharp spike.
Both of us turned instinctively.
John Doe's heart rate had climbed.
His fingers twitched.
It wasn't random. Not reflexive even.
Deliberate.
And then—
His eyes opened.
Directly on me.