Jillian slowly pulled away, careful not to disturb his stitches. The room was quiet now, the danger passed, for the moment. She slipped her scrub top back on, her movements precise, steadying herself. Her heart was still pounding.
He watched her in silence from the bed, eyes following every gesture.
"I'll call security," she said softly. "Have them sweep the entire east wing. We won't take chances."
He nodded, propping himself slightly with effort. "Thank you… for everything. That was... brave."
She met his gaze. "Desperate," she corrected gently, then allowed a small smile. "But yeah, maybe a little brave too."
Before she could reach the door, he called after her. "You still don't know my name."
She paused. "No. I don't."
There was a beat. Then he said, "It's Ethan."
Jillian held his gaze. "You can tell me the rest when you're ready."
Long after the shadows had faded and the threat seemed to pass, Jillian remained tense. The hallway outside the ward was quiet—but not safe. Not anymore.
She returned to Ethan's bedside, her voice low and urgent. "We need to move you. They could come back. This place isn't secure."
He blinked slowly, the drugs still wearing off. "Where?"
Jillian tapped her phone, pulling up the hospital's layout. "There's a supply storage unit on the old west wing. It was converted into a backup recovery room during the flu surge last year. No one checks it. I can reroute your chart under a temporary alias and update the system from my office."
Ethan looked at her, hesitant. "You'd really do all that… for me?"
She met his gaze. "I already did more than I should have tonight. I might as well finish what I started."
With help from a trusted night nurse, they carefully transferred him onto a mobile stretcher. Jillian led the way through dim back corridors, using her access card to slip through old service elevators and restricted zones.
The room they entered was small and clean, dimly lit, tucked away from the rest of the active floors. Jillian adjusted his IV drip and checked his vitals. Everything stable. For now.
She handed him a hospital gown and a warm blanket from a cabinet, her hands brushing his again.
"I'll check in before the end of every shift," she whispered. "You're safe here. But don't open the door for anyone except me."
He stared at her, a silent gratitude in his eyes. "You don't even know who I really am."
She turned to go, hesitated, then looked back. "Not yet. But I trust the version of you who begged for help instead of giving up."
Then she left—leaving him in the darkened room, his heart pounding in rhythm with something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
It had been three days since Ethan was moved into the hidden recovery room. The hospital remained calm on the surface, but Jillian noticed subtle shifts—extra security at the entrances, unfamiliar faces loitering too long in the lobby. She didn't ask questions. She just did her rounds, checked in on Ethan twice a day, and kept his chart invisible.
One quiet afternoon, she stepped into his room to find him sitting up, dressed in plain clothes instead of the hospital gown. His IV was removed, his bandages clean and neatly redone.
"You're leaving?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with concern.
Ethan nodded, adjusting the sling on his arm. "I have to. I've stayed too long already. They'll find me if I don't move."
Jillian crossed her arms, leaning against the door. "And go where? You're still healing."
"I'll manage." He looked up at her. "You've done enough, Jillian. More than anyone ever has."
She didn't reply at first. Her throat tightened. She wasn't used to people leaving—especially not after they'd started to matter.
"I'm not asking you to stay," she said finally, quietly. "But don't disappear. Not completely."
He took a slow step toward her. "If I make it through this, if I finish what I started… I'll come back."
Their eyes locked. The moment lingered, charged with everything they weren't saying.
He then leaned in—not to kiss her, but to rest his forehead lightly against hers.
"Thank you… for saving more than my life."
And with that, Ethan slipped out the back exit, disappearing into the world once more—leaving Jillian standing alone, the hum of the monitor the only sound left behind.
The familiar scent of disinfectant and the soft hum of machines filled the hospital hallway as Jillian slipped into her white coat, tying her hair back in a practiced motion. The past few days had been a whirlwind, but today was like slipping back into a rhythm she knew too well.
She reviewed her patient list at the nurse's station—two cardiac recoveries, a bypass scheduled later in the afternoon, and a new resident joining her rounds. Her world hadn't slowed down; it never did.
"Dr. Jiang," Nurse Wen approached her briskly, "The patient in Room 212 is complaining of chest tightness again."
"I'll check on him right after Ward 3," Jillian replied, her voice calm and clear.
She moved through her rounds efficiently, assessing vitals, adjusting medications, offering calm reassurance with her usual quiet strength. Her hands were steady, her words precise.
But in the quiet moments between tasks, when she walked down a hallway alone or looked out a window while writing notes, her mind drifted—just briefly.
To his voice.
To the moment he clutched her arm.
To those words: Please help me out. They're after my life.
She shook it off each time, telling herself it was over.
*****
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as Jillian poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea in the break room. Her shift was halfway through, and the day had been manageable—routine, even. She leaned against the counter, letting the silence settle.
A pair of junior nurses entered, laughing softly as they kicked off their shoes and collapsed onto the couch.
"Did you hear what Mei said this morning?" one asked, pulling out her phone.
"No, what?" the other replied, opening her snack.
"A guy tall, confident, kind of too polished to be just passing through. Expensive shoes. Sharp suit. Mei said he walked straight into the emergency room like he knew where he was going—but still asked politely for a Dr. Jiang."
Jillian's hand froze mid-sip.
"Oh?" the second nurse asked, curious. "Who was he?"
"Don't know. Mei said he didn't give a name. Just said he wanted to thank her… for saving his life."
The nurses kept chatting, spinning harmless theories, but Jillian wasn't listening anymore.
Her pulse thrummed gently in her ears. She moved to sit at the corner table, back straight, eyes on her untouched tea. Her expression remained calm, collected. But inside?
A storm brewed.
Her thoughts drifted to him—not the wounded man they pulled from near death, but the one who clutched her wrist with steel in his eyes, whispering, "Please help me."
Ethan.
Sharp-minded. Unyielding. Full of secrets.