Chapter Thirteen Emmy
Chapter Thirteen
Emmy
I wake too early.
Not gently, dragged up from sleep like my body knows something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet. It feels as though I haven’t slept at all, like the night never truly loosened its grip on me.
I roll onto my side and glance at the clock on the wall.
4:09 a.m.
Fuck.
I don’t need to be at work until eight. There’s no reason for my heart to be beating this fast, no reason for my skin to feel tight and restless. And yet,
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on me. The curtains are still drawn, but a thin line of light slips through the gap, streetlights bleeding faintly into the room like a warning I don’t understand yet.
Unease settles low and heavy in my chest.
It’s familiar now.
My hand moves on its own, pressing against that spot on my sternum, fingers circling slowly as if I can rub the feeling away. Ground myself. Anchor myself to the quiet, to the room, to the fact that I’m safe.
But the stillness doesn’t soothe me.
It feels like the calm before something inevitable.
And no matter how hard I try to breathe through it, the sense that I’ve woken up at exactly the wrong moment refuses to let me go.
After what feels like far too long, and not nearly long enough, I finally force myself out of bed.
The movements come automatically. Mechanical.
I shower, letting the water beat against my skin without really registering the heat, without finding the relief I expect.
I dress in my scrubs like I always do. Familiar fabric.
Familiar routine. Hair pulled back tight, mascara swept on just enough to make me look awake.
Presentable. Functional.
I move through my kitchen on autopilot, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove. When it begins to heat, the rising hum is the only sound in the apartment, too loud in the quiet. I lean back against the counter, arms folded loosely over my middle, and wait.
The kettle whistles.
The sharp sound slices through me, making my shoulders tense as something unsettled twists low in my chest. I press my weight more firmly into the counter, grounding myself, trying to shake the sensation that today is tilted slightly off its axis.
Nothing is wrong.
Nothing has happened.
And yet, the feeling lingers, persistent and intimate, like a hand at my back I can’t quite see, reminding me that some days don’t announce their significance until it’s already too late.
I pour the water, breathe in the steam, and tell myself, again, that I’m just tired.
Work begins slowly, the ward still half-asleep, wrapped in that peculiar hush that only exists in the early hours. I move through my routine on instinct, checks, notes, familiar faces, letting the rhythm of it carry me while my thoughts drift somewhere they shouldn’t.
Eventually, my feet take me to bed nine.
Mr Blackwood lies exactly as I left him, still and silent, machines breathing for him in steady, patient rhythms. I pull a chair closer and lower myself beside his bed, my voice instinctively dropping, like this is a confession instead of a habit.
“He was in my house last night,” I murmur.
The only response is the calm, consistent beeping of the monitor, unwavering and impartial.
“He was hurt,” I add quietly, my fingers curling into the fabric of my scrubs.
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight.
“He kissed me.”
My hand lifts to my mouth without conscious thought, fingertips brushing my lips as the memory blooms, warm, insistent, dangerous. A phantom sensation lingers there, like his mouth never quite left.
“I kissed him back,” I whisper.
My breath stutters as the images rush in unbidden. The way he looked at me, dark, intent, like he was claiming something he’d already decided belonged to him. The way his hands steadied me. The way the world seemed to quiet when he touched me.
I should have been afraid.
Instead, I felt calm. Grounded. Peaceful.
Everything I shouldn’t have felt after finding a stranger in my home.
Nothing was broken. Nothing disturbed. Every surface untouched.
And yet, he had been there.
The knowledge sends a shiver through me, equal parts thrill and fear. He feels dangerous, like standing too close to an open flame. And I know, with unsettling clarity, that I am drawn to him the way a moth is drawn to light, aware of the risk, powerless to resist.
I force myself to breathe, to pull back into the present.
I straighten Mr Blackwood’s blankets, smooth the fabric with practiced care. I check his vitals, record the numbers, fill out his chart with neat, careful handwriting, proof that I’m still functional, still in control.
“Always good to talk to you, Mr Blackwood,” I say softly as I rise. “Rest well.”
The monitor continues its steady rhythm as I step away.
It doesn’t judge me.
The rest of the day unfolds the way these days always do, slow and subdued, wrapped in hushed voices and careful footsteps. No new admissions. No emergencies. Just families lingering at bedsides, hands clasped tight, hope whispered into stillness. Doctors murmur the same reassurances on repeat.
He’s stable. She’s comfortable.
Words meant to soothe. Words that hover in the air and never quite land.
By the time I retreat to the nursing lounge, the quiet has settled into my bones. I’ve just sunk into one of the chairs when Tate bursts through the door like she always does, bright, loud, unapologetically alive.
“Em!” she exclaims, crossing the room in three quick strides before pulling me into a hug. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I almost thought you’d snuck off with Ryan or something.”
She giggles, pulling back to look at me, eyes sharp and knowing.
“Or,” she adds, waggling her eyebrows, “have you been whisked away by your mysterious stalker?”
My stomach tightens.
“Is this your subtle way of asking how my date with Ryan went?” I counter quickly, sidestepping her mention of Khai like it never happened.
Tate studies me for a beat, lips pursed, clearly aware of exactly what I’m doing. For a moment, I brace myself for her to push, for her to say his name out loud and crack something open I’m not ready to examine.
Instead, she smirks.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “So, it was a date.”
She punctuates it with a wink.
“I don’t know,” I admit, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth. “The word wasn’t used. But it kind of felt like one.” I hesitate, then add, “It just… ended early. There was a fire in the kitchen.”
“I heard about that,” Tate says, already moving toward the coffee machine.
She punches a few buttons, the familiar whirr filling the room.
“Pretty bad damage, apparently. But”, she glances over her shoulder, “some anonymous donor made a generous contribution that same day to help get everything fixed.”
Relief crashes through me, sudden and unexpected. That little café means more to the owners than just business, and I’d been quietly worrying they might not recover.
“That’s good,” I murmur. “I’m glad.”
Tate turns back with her coffee, takes a sip, then grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Anyway,” she says, sing-song. “I actually came to find you because you still owe me a girls’ night.”
She plants herself in front of me now, all determination and mischief. “This weekend. Drinks. Dancing. Something reckless.”
This time, I don’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “That sounds… good.”
Maybe time with Tate is exactly what I need. A reminder of who I was before everything started feeling sharper, darker. Before a dangerous man stepped into my world and left his fingerprints on my thoughts.
I just don’t say that part out loud.
It’s past nine by the time my shift finally ends.
The nurse taking over for me was running late, and by the time I finish handing things over, my body feels heavy with exhaustion. The ward has settled into night mode, lights dimmed, voices lowered, machines carrying on their soft, tireless vigil.
I gather my things slowly, slinging my bag over my shoulder before checking my phone.
Nothing.
No missed calls. No messages.
Not even from Khai.
I tell myself I’m relieved. That the absence is a good thing. That I don’t need another reminder of the way his kiss has lodged itself beneath my skin.
It’s a lie.
A quiet, aching part of me had hoped, stupidly, for something. A word. A sign. Proof that last night wasn’t something I imagined into significance all on my own.
I consider texting him.
Just for a second.
Then I scoff softly at myself. What would I even say? Hey, I can’t stop thinking about the way you kissed me? Absolutely not. I lock my phone and tuck it away, forcing my feet to move toward the exit before I can change my mind.
The staff car park is dim and mostly empty when I step outside. Cool air brushes my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms as I walk toward my car. That familiar unease curls low in my chest again, sharp and sudden.
My hand lifts instinctively toward my sternum.
I stop myself.
You’re fine, I tell myself firmly. Just tired. Just shaken. Anyone would be after a near mugging. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except the feeling doesn’t fade.
As I get closer to my car, the sensation sharpens, prickling along my spine like a whispered warning. The hairs at the back of my neck lift. I slow, scanning the shadows, the rows of parked cars, the quiet corners of the lot.
Nothing.
No movement. No figures. No sound but my own breathing.
Still, the certainty lingers, someone is watching.
A shiver crawls through me as I unlock my car and slide inside, locking the door the second it closes. Only then do I let out the breath I didn’t realise I was holding.
The engine turns over. The headlights cut through the dark.
I pull out of the car park and drive home, telling myself I’m imagining things. That exhaustion is playing tricks on me. That there’s nothing out there.
But the feeling follows me all the way home.