Chapter 11 Rowan #2
Because I don't want my work bleeding into my personal life, I almost reply.
But that's not quite right. It's already bled.
It's already mixed. The boundaries I tried to maintain dissolved the moment Kiren walked into my world, and now everything touches everything else in ways I can't fully untangle.
“Because I'm trying to keep things separate,” I offer, knowing it's not enough explanation, but unable to give her more without revealing too much.
She studies me for a long moment, her head tilting slightly, and her eyes narrowing in that way that means she's piecing together information I haven't given her. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
The lie tastes wrong in my mouth, obvious and unconvincing.
She doesn't call me on it directly. Instead, her expression changes, becoming softer, more careful. “Is this about Kiren?”
My spine straightens automatically, my body responding to the name before I can control the reaction. “It's not about Kiren.”
“You're terrible at lying, Rowan.” She replies cheerfully, but there's an edge of concern underneath, genuine worry bleeding through the lightness.
I lower my voice further, leaning in so the words won't carry beyond the small space between us. “Lila. I don't want him anywhere near you.”
That gives her pause. The smile fades from her face, replaced by confusion and the beginning of alarm. “Him? You mean Ivan?”
I nod once, the movement small but definite.
Her confusion deepens, creasing lines across her forehead. “Why? He's been nothing but nice. Polite. Interested in getting to know you better. What am I missing?”
Everything, I want to tell her. You're missing the way he watched me at lunch, the way his attention felt calculated, and every word he chose seemed designed to gather information while revealing nothing.
You're missing the instinct that screams wrong every time I think about him, the same instinct that's kept me alive through situations that should have killed me.
But I can't explain that without explaining everything else. Without pulling back the curtain on the life I've been trying to keep separate from her, this place, and the version of myself that exists inside these walls.
“I just get a weird vibe from him,” I finally admit, the words inadequate but true. “And I know that sounds vague and unhelpful, but I'm asking you to trust me on this.”
She searches my face, looking for details I'm not sure I can give her. Then she nods slowly, her expression serious now, the playfulness completely gone. “Okay. Okay. I hear you.”
“Thank you.”
“But Rowan?” She touches my arm lightly. “If there are details I should actually know, anything beyond a vibe, you need to tell me. You get that, right?”
I meet her eyes, seeing the genuine concern there, the friendship that's survived years of my walls and her persistence. “I know. And if it becomes more than a vibe, I promise I'll tell you.”
She holds my gaze a moment longer, then nods and steps back, letting the conversation end. But I can see her mind working, processing, and filing away this exchange for later examination.
Leo watches from across the room as she walks away, his attention lingering on her before returning to the room.
“What?” I ask quietly, moving closer so we can speak without being overheard.
“Nothing,” he replies, his tone neutral. “Just noting patterns.”
So am I.
Later, when the floor finally quiets into the lull that comes before the late-night rush, I step into an empty workroom to review a chart.
The room is small and windowless, lit by the glow of the computer screen and a single overhead fluorescent that hums faintly.
I pull up the patient file I need, my eyes skimming through vitals, notes, and timestamps, looking for the information I need to make my next decision.
I stop. There's an entry under my name that I don't recognize. A medication adjustment was logged at 14:12. I wasn't here at 14:12. I was in surgery. No access to a terminal. No reason to log into the system.
I scroll through the entry again, checking every detail. The user ID is mine. The timestamp is clear. The signature at the bottom is digitally authenticated.
My pulse ticks up, not dramatically, just enough to feel off. I check my schedule in another window, confirming what I already know. Surgery from 13:30 to 15:45. No gaps. No way I could have accessed this system during that window.
I flag IT and send a message through the internal system marked urgent. Ten minutes later, a tired technician appears in the doorway, tablet in hand, exhaustion written across his face after a long shift.
“System lag,” he tells me after pulling up the logs, his tone suggesting this happens often enough that he's stopped being surprised. “Happens sometimes when the servers get overloaded. Probably cached credentials from your last login getting timestamped wrong.”
“Probably,” I echo.
I don’t argue. I close the chart and add it to the growing list of things that don’t align. Because evidence doesn't disappear just because someone calls it a glitch. Patterns become visible once there’s enough information to compare.
On my break, I step outside into the cold night.
The air hits my face like a slap, slicing through the fog of exhaustion and recycled hospital air.
I sit on the low concrete wall near the ambulance bay, far enough from the entrance that I won't be immediately visible but close enough that I can get back quickly if needed.
I pull out my phone and check the notifications I've been ignoring. Three missed calls from my mother, all within the last two hours. I open the voicemail with a sense of resignation, knowing exactly what I'll hear.
Her voice fills my ear, warm and unmistakable, a sound that belongs to a different world than the one I currently inhabit.
“Rowan, sweetheart, I know you're busy. You're always busy.” She laughs softly, the sound filled with equal parts affection and exasperation.
“But I wanted to remind you about Ethan's birthday dinner this weekend.
I've already ordered the cake. Chocolate, because he pretends he doesn't care, but he absolutely does.
You know how he gets about traditions. And I know it's been a while since we were all together, but I just… I just want my kids under one roof for one night. Is that too much to ask?”
The message ends on that note, not quite a question but not quite a statement either.
I stare at the concrete beneath my feet, my throat tight.
A few feet away, Leo leans against the edge of the ambulance bay, his posture loose, and gaze outward.
He doesn’t crowd me. He just stays where he can see everything that approaches and everything that leaves.
Inside those walls, people are fighting to stay alive. Bleeding, broken, and desperately clinging to existence. Outside, in the world where my mother lives, the biggest concern is whether everyone will show up for birthday cake.
The contrast doesn't just strike me. It guts me.
I think about how quickly everything has changed.
How Kiren slid into the center of my world without permission or warning, altering the entire axis of my existence.
How dangerous and reckless that is. How completely against every principle of self-preservation I've spent years building. And how inevitable it feels anyway.
I don't regret him. That realization scares me more than any of the threats that have followed me into this life.
When my shift finally ends, I change out of my scrubs in the locker room, moving through the routine on autopilot.
Leo drives me back to the secured apartment in silence, his attention divided between the road and the mirrors, constantly checking our surroundings even though we both know surveillance is tighter than it's ever been.
The apartment is quiet when I enter. Warm and safe in a way that feels increasingly fragile.
Kiren is waiting in the living room, standing by the window overlooking the city. He turns when he hears me come in, his attention narrowing from whatever held it to me.
“Rowan.”
Just my name. Not a question. An acknowledgment.
I cross the room to him, my body moving before I've decided to close the distance. When I'm close enough to feel his warmth, I stop.
“I need to tell you about today,” I begin, and once I start, the words don’t stop.
I tell him about the chart, the timestamp that shouldn’t exist, and the entry logged under my credentials while I was in surgery.
I tell him about the man near the nurses’ station, how he lingered without belonging, and how he vanished the moment I tried to place him.
I describe the sensation I couldn’t shake, not fear exactly, but the same internal alert that precedes a crash before the monitor catches up.
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t soften his expression or reassure me prematurely. He listens the way he does everything else, with full attention and focus that makes the space between us feel sealed off from the rest of the world.
When I finish, he doesn’t speak right away. His eyes hold mine, reading past the words into what I haven’t said.
“The chart access,” he says finally, “that’s not coincidence.”
His hands curl into fists.
“And the man you saw. Describe him again.”
I do. Height, posture, and the way he waited patiently.
Kiren nods once, already assembling something in his mind. “I’ll have my people audit the hospital systems. Quietly. No flags. And I’ll have extra eyes on the perimeter when you’re there, inside and out.”
The certainty in his tone eases my worry.
“You’re not imagining this,” he continues. “And you’re not overreacting.”
Only then do I tell him about my mother’s voicemail. About Ethan’s birthday dinner. About how small and impossibly normal it sounds compared to everything else. And how I have to go.
When he finally speaks, there’s no hesitation.
“I’ll come with you.”
It’s not a question, it’s a decision.
I suck in a breath in surprise, relief, and other emotions all tangling together. “Kiren—”
“I won’t leave you to go alone.”
I look past him toward the window where the city lights glow in the darkness. Toward the life I've been trying to protect without fully understanding the cost of that protection.
“I'm not stepping back into my old world,” I tell him quietly. “I'm bringing you into it.”
“I understand,” Kiren replies.
The realization moves through me in a quiet, full-body way. This is the choice I’m making. Bringing him into my family, into the world where I’m just Rowan the doctor, Rowan the daughter, Rowan the sister. Not the woman entangled with a man whose life is built on violence and power.
The two versions of myself are colliding, merging, becoming inseparable. I meet his eyes, finding them already watching me, reading the decision as it forms.
His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against my cheek with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about him. “I’ll stand in it with you.”
I close my eyes at his touch, letting myself lean into it for just a moment. Letting myself accept what I've known for weeks but haven't admitted.
This is it. This is where my careful compartmentalization ends. Where the walls I built between different parts of my life come down. And despite everything that could go wrong, the danger, complication, and inevitable chaos, I don't want to take it back.
The night rests against the windows. The city moves below. Inside this apartment, in this moment, I choose to stop running from the collision that's been coming since the first time I saw him.
I open my eyes.
Kiren is still watching me, his expression holding questions he won't ask, and decisions he's already made.
I don't look away.