Chapter 10 #2
He stopped at the fruit stand and chose two mangoes carefully, his mind working behind calm eyes.
He asked the woman in the bright dress to slice them.
With the fruit wrapped up, he proceeded to the bakery and bought two bottles of chilled water, a plain flatbread like the waitress at the café told him Eira ate, and he couldn’t resist two pieces of fried dough dipped in cinnamon sugar.
He hopped in the Defender and headed to the clinic.
THE CLINIC
The clinic was louder than usual. Voices overlapped in controlled cadence.
A baby was crying in the pediatric wing.
The low hum of the centrifuge sounded from the lab.
A steady beep came from a telemetry monitor at the central desk, where Eira stood reviewing lab results when she felt it. There was a shift in the air.
She knew the sound of the Defender now, the slightly rough way it idled before cutting off. She expected it to be Karine. She exhaled and signed off on a chart.
“Liana,” she said without lifting her eyes, “would you check in with Gabe for report on Mr. Varga?”
“I did. Still running a low-grade temperature. Gabe adjusted antibiotics. He’s holding.”
She tapped her pen against the desk. Holding for now. Everything is holding.
The clinic doors opened. She heard a murmur of greeting from the front desk — the receptionist’s polite island warmth softening around a familiar presence. That was not how she spoke to Karine.
She told herself not to react, but her body did anyway. She glanced up.
Ford stepped inside carrying a brown paper bag and what looked like fruit wrapped in waxed paper. He looked stronger than he looked last night. The color was back in his face. His eyes were clearer. They were still watchful. He was always watchful.
He paused just inside, scanning automatically — exits, hallways, staff positions — before his gaze found her. It softened a fraction. That feeling landed somewhere uncomfortably low in her chest.
He approached the desk slowly, not interrupting, waiting until she finished giving instructions to a nurse about pediatric dosing. Only when she turned fully toward him did he speak. “You eat yet?”
She raised a brow. “Is that a medical question?”
“It’s a practical one.”
He set the bag down on the counter and unpacked it with care. Mango slices. Two bottles of chilled water. Plain flatbread. And then, with the tiniest flicker of guilt, two pieces of fried dough dusted in cinnamon sugar.
Her lips almost betrayed her. “You learned my weakness,” she said flatly.
“The waitress has strong opinions.”
She folded her arms. “I don’t have time.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough that it didn’t carry. “You always say that. Five minutes won’t collapse your triage grid. You can eat during my recheck.”
She studied him. He was different today. There was something else in his eyes too. Something sharpened, as if he’d seen something and filed it away.
“What did you find at the harbor?” she asked.
He unscrewed a bottle of water and slid it toward her, then tipped his head and whispered, “Staff at Tevenne are sick. They’re stopping arrivals. Supplies only. VIP flights are grounded.”
Her pulse skipped once. “Who told you that?”
“I listened.”
She exhaled slowly. “That’s not public knowledge.”
“It is if you know the right language.”
A muscle in her jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be digging.”
“I wasn’t digging,” he said evenly. “I was paying attention.”
The clinic noise faded to a background hum. She became acutely aware of how close he was, the faint scent of spice from his coffee and salt from sweat on his skin. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”
“I am.”
“This isn’t rest.”
“No,” he agreed. “I suppose it’s not.”
Their eyes locked. Something unspoken passed between them.
She walked down the adult corridor to Room 3, Ford’s designated room. He placed the bags down on the counter and sat on the bed.
She listened to his lungs and heart. She gently pressed the four quarters of his abdomen and stepped back. He wrapped the electronic BP cuff around his upper arm and put the pulse oximeter on his finger. He pressed the button, and the cuff tightened, squeezing firm, then released in a slow hiss.
He glanced at the screen. “BP’s 122 over 78. Pulse 64.”
The oximeter blinked steadily. “Ninety-nine percent.”
Eira leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” He pulled the cuff off. “That’s solid.”
“For a man who ignores half my advice,” she replied.
He crossed to the counter and opened one of the paper bags. The smell of warm cinnamon drifted into the room.
“That’s why you’re here,” he said. “To keep me honest.”
Eira didn’t move, but her eyes softened slightly.
Ford pulled out one of the pieces of cinnamon dough, still warm. He tore off a small piece. “Come here.”
She hesitated for half a second, then stepped closer. Ford didn’t rush it. He watched her, then lifted the piece toward her lips.
Eira’s gaze flicked from his hand to his eyes, then back again. She leaned in just enough, taking the bite carefully, her lips brushing his fingers for the briefest moment.
Ford’s hand stayed there a second longer than it needed to. “Well?”
Eira just looked at him. “Worth ignoring your advice for.”
Ford’s mouth curved slightly. “Good.”
The world outside that room, the storm, the patients, and everything waiting felt just a little farther away.
Liana cleared her throat gently from behind them. “Doctor, your eleven o’clock is here.”
Reality snapped back into place. Eira reached for a mango slice almost absently, taking a bite without breaking eye contact with Ford. The sweetness grounded her. “If you want, you can stay, but you follow instructions.”
He nodded once. “Yes, Doctor.”
She held his gaze a second longer, searching for defiance. There was only resolve. She turned toward the hallway, already slipping back into motion. He picked up the bag and followed.