Chapter 5 Rowan
ROWAN
I’m dreaming about him before I realize I’m dreaming at all.
The setting is vague, stripped down to sensation rather than place.
Heat and pressure blur together, the undeniable presence of a body too close to mine to ignore.
I recognize his shape first by feel. Broad shoulders beneath my hands.
The hard plane of his chest pressing me back.
His height registers even here, the way I have to tilt my head to meet his mouth, and the way his body blocks everything else out without trying.
Kiren.
The name forms fully as my mind catches up to my body.
His hands frame my waist, his fingers spanning easily, his thumbs pressing into my muscles like he’s mapping me.
His touch is restrained but unyielding, enough to drive my pulse into a faster rhythm.
I feel the heat of his skin through fabric that should be a barrier and isn’t.
I feel his attention lock onto me as if there’s nowhere else in the world he could look.
His mouth lowers slowly. When he kisses me, I feel every second of it register in my nervous system.
My body reacts immediately, my breath shortening, and muscles tightening as if preparing for impact.
There’s nothing gentle about the way he holds me, and nothing careless either.
He’s aware of himself, of me, and of the space between us closing in graduated steps.
I taste him. Clean, dark, and unmistakably male.
My hands slide up his chest without permission from my brain, my fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders as if standing on my own is no longer optional.
He exhales against my mouth, a low sound that vibrates through me and travels deep into my abdomen.
His jaw is warm beneath my palm, the faint roughness there scraping just enough to make my breath catch. One of his hands moves up my spine and stops between my shoulder blades, holding me there without trapping me.
I know this man. Not fully or safely, but enough that my body recognizes the risk and leans into it anyway.
When his mouth leaves mine, it traces along my jaw and my throat, lingering where my pulse jumps too fast to hide.
I feel his breath there, feel the pause, the restraint, and the moment where he chooses not to take more even though he could.
That’s what undoes me. The knowledge that he’s holding back.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, urgency overriding coordination.
I manage two before frustration wins, and I tug it open, the buttons scattering out of reach.
I press closer as his hands find my breasts, cupping and kneading through the thin fabric of my blouse, his touch firm and reverent all at once.
“Moya,” he breathes against my skin. “I need you.”
I wake with a sharp inhale, my chest lifting in a rush, my sheets twisted around my legs. Sweat slicks my skin, clinging to the cotton tank top like I’ve been running instead of sleeping. My heart hammers hard enough that I have to sit up and plant my feet on the floor to orient myself.
The room is dark and quiet, the blackout curtains doing their job. My bedside clock glows 4:12 A.M. in soft blue numbers. I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers coming away damp, and press my palm flat against my sternum. My pulse doesn’t immediately slow. My body still thinks he’s here.
“Get it together, Rowan,” I murmur.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, the floor cold against my bare feet.
The apartment feels different in the early morning hours, stripped of movement and noise, everything reduced to edges and shadows.
I pad into the kitchen, flipping on the under-cabinet light instead of the overhead.
The soft glow spills across the clean counters and the empty sink.
I pour a glass of water and drink it too fast, swallowing hard as I brace my free hand against the counter. The water is cold enough to sting, but it doesn’t do much to quiet the echo of the dream still clinging to me. My body remains tuned to him in a way that makes no sense.
I stare out the kitchen window while the city sleeps below, lights scattered like embers in the distance. Kiren Sovarin occupies my thoughts without invitation, his presence intruding on every attempt at logic.
I don’t know him well. That fact should matter more than it does.
What I do know is limited but specific. He’s direct.
He doesn’t waste words. He watches more than he reveals.
At dinner, he asked questions that mattered and left others alone, as if he were gathering information without forcing me to offer it.
When I tested boundaries, he noticed. When I pushed, he didn’t pull back or close the distance, only modified his approach.
He escorted me home when I mentioned the time, without trying to extend the evening or extract more than I was ready to give.
I respect that more than I want to admit.
I finish the water and set the glass in the sink, then stand there breathing slowly until my pulse begins to settle into something manageable. The dream lingers, vivid enough that I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hands, and the awareness of his body crowding mine.
I don’t analyze the dream further. That would be a mistake.
Instead, I turn back toward the bedroom and start my morning routine earlier than planned, grateful for the familiar sequence of steps that require no emotion.
Shower. Scrubs. Hair braided tightly and pinned into place.
Minimal makeup. Function over reflection.
By the time I leave the apartment, the sky has begun to lighten, the deep blue at the horizon thinning toward gray. The air outside is cold enough to wake me fully as I lock the door behind me. I walk to my car on autopilot, my focus slipping despite my effort to keep it where it belongs.
Charlotte Memorial rises ahead of me as it always does, with a familiarity that rarely surprises me.
The parking garage hums with early arrivals, tires echoing against the cement, and footsteps moving in consistent patterns.
I clip on my badge and enter through the staff doors, antiseptic and coffee meeting me at once.
Inside, everything makes sense again. Scrubs brush against my legs. Charts line up in neat stacks. The low thrum of monitors and overhead announcements settles my nerves in a way nothing else can. Trauma bays stand ready. This isn’t calm, but it’s contained.
For several hours, the world narrows to patient care.
I move from bed to bed, reviewing scans, adjusting orders, and answering questions.
My hands work without hesitation, my voice finding its professional cadence easily.
A resident trails me, scribbling notes, his questions practical and expected.
Nurses pass updates as they move, each exchange brief and functional.
This is where I’m most myself.
The memory of Kiren dulls under the rhythm of work, receding just enough that I can pretend last night didn’t matter. That the dream was simply my body processing stress and novelty. That attraction doesn’t mean vulnerability. By mid-morning, I almost believe it.
The illusion holds until I reach the locker room. I open my locker expecting the same orderly contents I always find. Shoes lined up. Bag hanging from its hook. White coat folded carefully. The folded paper resting on top doesn’t belong.
I freeze, my fingers still wrapped around the locker door, my eyes locked on the note as if it might move if I look away. It’s placed neatly, centered, not tucked or hidden. My pulse jumps hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
The paper is plain, free of letterhead or smudges. The fold is crisp and careful. I lift it and unfold it slowly, aware of my surroundings, voices echoing down the hall, and lockers opening and closing around me.
The message is brief, a single sentence that says more than it explains. It doesn’t ask or warn. It states. The handwriting is careful, almost polite, each letter formed with intention, and that detail rattles me more than anything careless would have.
I read it once. Then again.
You were observed doing exactly what you do best. We are still watching.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t let it show on my face. I fold the paper back along the original crease and slide it into the pocket of my scrub pants, prioritizing containment over response. Whatever this is, it doesn’t deserve an immediate reaction. Patients still need me.
I change, hang my coat, and close the locker like nothing has happened.
When I turn back toward the hall, nothing about my posture or pace draws attention.
But the sense of being watched follows me out of the room, clinging to me like static I can’t shake.
Whatever world Kiren Sovarin belongs to may still feel separate from mine.
But the distance between them is no longer as wide as I want it to be.
The rest of the shift unfolds the way storms do when you’re already standing in the rain.
Relentless, noisy, and indifferent to personal timing.
I move from trauma bay to consult to follow-up without pause, my attention locked onto injuries and outcomes rather than the paper folded against my hip.
I don’t touch it again. I know exactly where it is, and for now, that’s enough.
A multi-vehicle collision comes in just before noon, metal folded around bodies in ways that make my chest ache.
I take the lead without discussion, my voice calm as I assign roles and direct movement.
Hands respond. Equipment appears. Blood pressure stabilizes.
A chest tube slides into place under my guidance.
The patient coughs and swears, then breathes easier, and relief moves through the room like a collective exhale.