He played with a kind of ache that mirrored my own, notes dipped in longing and restraint. It was the only time I'd ever seen him truly at ease. There was no tension in his brow, no clipped tone in his voice. Just sound. Just sadness.
Then suddenly, the music stopped.
I froze.
Noah sat still for a beat, then ran a hand through his dark hair and let out a breath I felt in my chest. He stood and turned toward the cabinet near the far wall, completely unaware of me. I caught my breath and backed away before he could see me, retreating down the hallway like a shadow.
Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, heart still racing. I didn't know what had possessed me. I didn't understand why that moment mattered so much.
But it did.
It cracked something open inside me.
I picked up the worn sketchpad from my nightstand, flipped to a clean page, and let my pencil move. I didn't know what I was drawing at first. A hand at a piano. A bowed head. Light washing over a face that rarely smiled. I shaded softly, line after line, until I realized it was him. Not the version I saw during morning rounds or in passing glances—but the version I saw tonight. Real. Raw.
Human.
When I finished, I stared at it for a long time.
It felt like I'd captured something I wasn't supposed to see.
I don't remember falling asleep. I must've dozed off sketching, the pencil still tucked between my fingers, the sketchpad resting beside me like a secret I wasn't ready to share.
The next morning came too fast. I woke to the rustling of nurses changing IV bags and the murmur of the hospital slowly waking up. I blinked blearily, heart still carrying the notes of that haunting song, and reached for my sketchpad—
Gone.
Panic sliced through me.
I threw off the sheets, scanning the room. The night nurse must've tidied during the early shift. My eyes caught on something outside my door—a slip of paper poking out from under the desk across the hall.
I raced to it, half-limping from sleep, and pulled it free.
My sketch.
A soft gasp escaped me.
It wasn't alone.
Attached to the edge was a folded note in neat, slanted handwriting. Unfamiliar. Careful.
> "You have an eye for seeing what others miss. Thank you—for that moment."
No signature.
No name.
But I didn't need one.
I stood there, stunned. The hallway buzzed behind me. Carts squeaked. A monitor beeped in the distance. But all I could hear was the echo of soft piano keys, the warmth of the music, the ache in every note.
He knew.
He'd seen it. Not just the drawing.
He'd seen me.
I pressed the paper to my chest, unsure whether to cry or laugh or collapse entirely. After a lifetime of being invisible, of being reduced to blood types and vital signs and whispered instructions behind closed doors, someone had seen something—even if only for a flicker of time.
And that someone was Noah Bennett.
The man who, until now, had never even looked at me long enough to know I was more than just Cassandra Moore's little sister.
I walked back to my room slowly, the note still clutched in my hand, the sketch trembling slightly with the breeze from a nearby vent.
That night had changed nothing.
And everything.
I didn't know what it meant, or what would come of it.
____
There was a hallway in West Wing B that always felt colder than the rest of the hospital. I used to think it was the draft under the old windows, or maybe the way the air vents clicked when they cycled between temperatures. But it wasn't the chill that bothered me—it was what this hallway led to.
Cassandra's suite.
Her room was sunlit, quiet, perfumed with orchids and imported lavender oils. The floor was always polished to a shine, like it didn't belong in a place where people were supposed to suffer. But I wasn't allowed through the front entrance like guests. I had to take the long way—the service path used by nurses and phlebotomists. It reeked of bleach and dried blood.
I held a clipboard in one hand and the bloodwork results in the other. The papers were crinkled at the corners, like they'd been clutched too tightly. My fingers had a tremble I couldn't shake.
I wasn't nervous because I had to deliver the labwork. I was nervous because it showed my platelets had dropped again. Which meant another extraction. Another transfusion. Another apology from a family who would never actually say they were sorry.
I moved quietly, the soles of my shoes barely making a sound on the floor tiles. You learn how to disappear in a place like this. You learn to become wallpaper.
I rounded the corner and nearly dropped the files.
He was there.
Noah Bennett. The new attending who joined the internal medicine team six months ago. The one with warm eyes and hands that didn't treat patients like they were puzzles to be solved. He always looked like he belonged in a room—not because he filled it, but because he softened it.
I knew who he was long before he knew I existed.
He was talking to a nurse, nodding at something on her tablet. I told myself to keep walking. Head down. Invisible. A shadow.
But the nurse turned and left.
And then… he looked up.
At me.
There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. My chest seized up. My feet faltered. I hadn't realized how fast I was walking until I nearly tripped trying to slow down.
He didn't look away. He didn't do what the others did—pretend I wasn't there or glance at me like I was just another volunteer from the donor program.
Noah Bennett smiled.