Chapter Eight Emmy
Chapter Eight
Emmy
I took a couple of days off.
Not because anyone told me to. Because my body asked before my mouth ever could.
After the almost-robbery. After the sharp pain that bloomed across my palm and the way fear sank into my bones like it had found a permanent home. I told myself I was shaken. That I needed rest.
What I really needed was quiet.
Time to let my nerves settle. Time to convince my heart that I wasn’t still in danger. Time to heal, inside and out.
I barely left my apartment.
Days blurred together in a haze of UberEats bags and trashy television, the kind that didn’t demand anything from me. No thinking. No reacting. Just noise to drown out my thoughts. I spent most of it curled up on the couch, one hand absently rubbing the centre of my chest, right over my sternum.
It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a kid. A grounding thing. A reminder that I’m still here. Still breathing.
This morning, I finally force myself out.
The hallway feels too open as I lock my door behind me, the click echoing louder than it should. Instinctively, my hand drifts back to my chest, fingers pressing lightly as I draw in a slow breath and turn toward the stairs.
That’s when I notice them.
The cameras.
Small. Black. Almost elegant in how discreet they are. Mounted high in the corners, angled with unsettling precision, watching stairwells, exits, blind spots. Not random. Not rushed.
Intentional.
My steps slow.
That’s strange, I think, my pulse beginning to skitter. I’m certain they weren’t here a few days ago. I would have noticed. I always notice things like this.
I make my way down to the car park, my shoulders tight, fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket as if bracing myself. The air feels heavier down here, cooler, quieter.
When I spot my car, I stop short.
For a moment, I forget how to move.
It hits me all at once, I wasn’t the one who brought it back here. I remember that now. Remember being taken home. Remember not driving.
And yet, here it is.
Parked perfectly in my favourite spot. The one I always choose without thinking. Tucked away just enough to feel safe.
It’s spotless.
Not just clean, immaculate.
The windows gleam. The paint shines. There’s no dust, no fingerprints, no sign that this car had ever been the site of something violent. And then the realisation lands, sharp and dizzying.
“My keys.” I gasp as I grab them out of my bag.
They were not missing.
They were upstairs, in my apartment this morning.
My chest tightens, fingers pressing harder over my sternum as I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat. I rest my hands on the steering wheel, forcing myself to breathe as I take in the pristine interior. The fresh scent. The careful attention.
And just like that, the memory surfaces.
Uninvited. Unavoidable.
Khai’s body pressed close behind me in the hallway. The solid heat of him at my back. His breath warm against my ear.
The way his hand had held my waist, firm, steady, like letting go wasn’t something he’d ever considered doing.
Sweet dreams, Little Heaven.
My throat tightens.
I rub the centre of my chest again, grounding myself, shaking my head as if that might loosen his voice from my thoughts. I turn the key in the ignition.
The engine roars to life.
And I drive away, pretending my hands aren’t trembling.
The ICU is calm in that deceptive way that never lasts.
Monitors hum softly, machines breathe for people who can’t, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic and something metallic underneath it. I should feel settled here. I usually do.
Instead, my fingers keep drifting to the centre of my chest, rubbing slow circles like I’m trying to anchor myself to my own body.
I pass bed nine and pause.
Mr Blackwood lies just as he always does, still, peaceful, suspended somewhere between here and not. I pull up a chair and lower myself beside him, my voice instinctively soft.
“I’m back,” I murmur. “Told you I wouldn’t disappear for long.”
I adjust his blanket, then sigh quietly.
“There’s a man,” I tell him, staring at the steady rise and fall of his chest. “And I don’t know how he got under my skin so quickly.” My mouth curves faintly, humourless. “He makes me feel watched. Not in a bad way. Just… aware. Like the world tilts slightly whenever he’s near.”
I swallow.
“He scares me,” I admit. “Because part of me doesn’t want him to stop.”
The monitor answers steadily, unimpressed.
When I stand, the sensation doesn’t leave me.
It follows me through the unit, a subtle pressure between my shoulder blades, like someone standing just behind me. I keep glancing up, half-expecting to see Khai leaning against the wall, dark eyes tracking my every move.
He isn’t there.
But it feels like he could be.
That’s when I notice the guard.
He’s stationed near the ICU doors, posture relaxed but alert. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-cut in a way that feels deliberate. And every now and then, when he thinks I’m not looking, his gaze flicks to me.
Lingers.
I feel it every time.
Tate catches me rubbing the centre of my chest again and pauses mid-sip of her coffee, one perfectly groomed brow lifting.
“You okay there?” she asks lightly. “Because that little chest-rub thing is becoming a recurring theme.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though we both know that means absolutely nothing.
She follows my line of sight and lets out a knowing hum. “Ah. New guard. Cute. And very much clocking you.”
“Stop,” I mutter, heat creeping into my cheeks as I drop my hand.
She grins, completely unrepentant. “I’m just observing. It’s literally my job as your best friend.”
Then she leans in a little closer, lowering her voice like she’s delivering a very important PSA. “Which is also why we’re locking in a girls’ night soon. Drinks, dancing, bad decisions,”
“Tate,”
“, and” she continues smoothly, “zero men trying it on with us. Absolutely none. We exist. We sparkle. They admire from afar.”
I laugh despite myself.
She straightens, flashes me a smug smile, and adds, “You’re welcome. I’ll send the calendar invite.”
The shift ends quietly.
I sign off my charts, sling my bag over my shoulder, and step out of the ICU, already halfway into my head when a voice stops me.
“Hey, Emmy.”
I turn.
Ryan is a few steps behind me, uniform jacket unzipped, posture relaxed like he’s been debating whether to catch up and finally decided to go for it.
“Looks like we’re escaping at the same time,” he says, smiling.
“Lucky us,” I reply, returning it before I can overthink.
He falls into step beside me as we walk down the corridor. Up close, he smells faintly of coffee and something clean, his presence easy, uncomplicated. No sharp edges. No weight pressing in from behind.
“I realised,” he says, glancing sideways at me, “that I’ve spent all day stationed near you without actually introducing myself properly. I’m Ryan.”
“I know,” I say, amused. “You have a badge.”
He laughs. “Fair. Still, nice to officially meet you.”
The lights hum overhead as we walk, the hospital slowly emptying around us. My fingers brush the centre of my chest, grounding, as that familiar sensation stirs again.
You’re mine.
The words ghost through my thoughts, uninvited, low and certain.
I straighten my shoulders.
Ryan clears his throat. “There’s a coffee place just down the street. Nothing fancy, but decent caffeine.” He hesitates just enough to make it charming. “Want to grab one? Now, if you’re free.”
Now.
The word lands like a challenge.
For a heartbeat, I see Khai’s face in my mind. Feel his hand at my waist. Hear the certainty in his voice, the way he spoke like the decision had already been made.
I don’t belong to anyone.
Defiance sparks, quiet, steady, unmistakable.
“Yeah,” I say, meeting Ryan’s gaze. “I’d like that.”
His smile widens, warm and openly pleased. “Great.”
We walk toward the exit together, shoulders almost brushing. He nudges the door open for me, playful. “After you.”
“Such a gentleman,” I tease.
He grins. “I try.”
The automatic doors slide open, cool evening air rushing in as we step outside side by side. The hospital glows behind us, bright and familiar, while the street ahead stretches dark and open.
As we head toward the coffee shop, laughter slipping easily between us, that subtle awareness tightens once more, like someone, somewhere, has just noticed a shift.
I ignore it.
I keep walking.
Just coffee, I remind myself.
Just proof, to myself most of all, that I am still my own.