Chapter 6
Caroline Atkins?
“Hey, Carol,” Rhonda calls, not even looking up from the med cart, her voice coated in the usual crusty don’t-give-a-shit. “You got someone near exit nine lookin’ for you.”
I slow down, frown. “Who?”
She shrugs one shoulder like I just asked her to do calculus. “Don’t know. Not your secretary, Atkins. Just said your name. Didn’t even ask politely.”
I stop dead. My brain does this little jolt—like a skipped heartbeat or a caffeine overdose—because there’s only one person dumb enough to show up without an appointment and bold enough to just throw my name around like confetti.
Crash.
Four days. It’s been four days since I watched him walk out of this hospital in the clothes I bought and the name I gave him, and I’ve been trying like hell not to think about it ever since.
Not wondering if he found a shelter. Not wondering if someone came for him. A family. A lover. A dog. Something.
Someone. Anyone.
Because if there’s nothing waiting for him out there, that makes all this too goddamn heavy. And I don’t do heavy.
I huff out a breath, flick Rhonda’s arm just enough to get her to flinch. “If it’s a Jehovah’s Witness again, I’m gonna stab you with a thermometer.”
“If it’s a boyfriend, I’m sending him to psych,” she mutters, popping pills into labeled cups like it’s target practice.
I roll my eyes and turn toward exit nine, heart doing a thing it really shouldn’t—like fluttering. Gross. Embarrassing. I’m a goddamn professional, not some intern with a crush and a box of gauze. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.
I barely know this guy.
I changed his sheets. I bandaged his wounds. I insulted his memory and bought him underwear. Then I shoved fifty bucks in his hand like some kind of streetwise Florence Nightingale with a debit card and unresolved issues.
So yeah. Definitely stupid.
But when I push through the double doors and step into the chilly breeze off exit nine, it hits me like someone just juiced a defib straight to my chest.
Crash.
He’s leaning against the wall like a kicked dog.
Hair greasy, that perfect dark mess now weighed down with grime and regret.
There’s scruff growing on his jaw—just enough to be called a beard if you squint and lower your standards.
The hoodie’s stained now, the sweats sagging at the knees like they’ve seen some shit. And those eyes?
Fucking hell—those eyes.
They’re sunken, hollow, and they flick to me like maybe I’m the only thing still tethering him to the planet.
“Crash?” I say, because apparently, my brain shorted out and we’re doing dumb today.
He straightens, kind of. Shifts his weight like he forgot how to stand like a person. “Hey, Carol,” he says, voice so soft it’s barely there. “You good?”
Am I good?
“Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell happened to you?” I bark, stepping closer, trying to assess without letting the nurse in me completely override the person. “You look like you got mugged by the sidewalk.”
He huffs a sad little laugh, hands buried in the front pocket of the hoodie like he’s afraid they’ll betray him. “Close. More like mugged by the entire city.”
My throat tightens. I want to yell at him. I want to hug him. I want to drag him back inside and bathe him myself, which is exactly the kind of mental image I need to squash immediately.
“You said you had a plan,” I mutter, stepping close enough to smell the sweat and rain on him. “This wasn’t a fucking plan, Crash. This is a cautionary tale.”
“I tried,” he says, and it hits different. Not pathetic. Not whining. Just… tired. “Shelters were full. Cops were useless. No one’s looking for me, Carol.”
And damn it if that doesn’t sting worse than I expected.
That look on his face—lost, frayed at the edges like a page that’s been turned too many times—sticks in my chest like a fucking splinter. I glance back at the hospital, at safety, rules, protocol, all the shit I’m supposed to care about.
Then I look at him again.
And none of it matters.
“Have you eaten anything?” I ask, crossing my arms like I’m not already plotting six backup plans and a grocery run.
He lifts one shoulder, barely. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “Still got some money left.”
And then, like he hates himself for it, his voice goes quiet. Real quiet.
“I just… I just wanted to see you.”
Shit.
That soft, pathetic little thread of a sentence wraps around something I don’t let people touch.
I sigh and shove a hand through my hair, already knowing where this is going, already preparing for Rhonda to call me a fucking lunatic when she finds out. “You can’t go on like this, Crash.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, eyes on the ground like they’re too heavy to lift anymore.
“Yeah, well,” I say, “I do.”
His eyes flicker, that same spark I saw in his hospital bed when I forced mashed potatoes into his mouth and told him to suck it up. Half hope, half disbelief.
“You’re coming home with me,” I say, firm, no hesitation.
“What?” he echoes, voice cracking like a kid caught shoplifting.
“No, I can’t… Carol, c’mon, you’ve done enough. Clothes, money, whatever—you—”
“And that’s called basic fucking decency,” I cut in, pointing at him like I might slap sense into him. “I didn’t knit you a sweater, I bought you sweats, relax. You’re not a stray I rescued from a burning barn.”
He opens his mouth, probably to argue again, so I steamroll the shit out of him.
“Look, we both know you’re not some junkie or a criminal. If you were, those genius cops would’ve tackled your pretty ass to the pavement days ago. So no, you’re not dangerous. You’re just... fucked.”
He huffs a little, like he might laugh but forgot how.
“So,” I say again, stepping closer, looking him dead in those tired gray eyes, “you’re coming home with me. You’ll shower, eat something that didn’t come from a vending machine, and sleep on an actual bed until we figure out what the hell the universe did to your head.”
I raise a brow.
“Okay?”
He stares at me, stunned. Like I just offered him a winning lottery ticket and a kidney.
“…Okay,” he says, quiet.
“Good,” I mutter, already walking past him, “because if you argued one more time, I was gonna start dragging you by the hood.”
He trails behind me into the hospital like a kicked dog who just found a half-open door and isn’t sure if he’s allowed to cross the threshold.
Hood up, eyes low, that scruffy jaw working like he’s chewing on guilt.
The sight of him shuffling down the hall behind me, all long limbs and hesitation, makes something squeeze tight in my chest.
I push open the staff breakroom door with my hip and gesture him in.
He steps inside like it’s holy ground.
“Sit down, okay?” I say, pointing at the stained vinyl chair in the corner that only wobbles if you lean just right.
“There’s tuna sandwiches and burnt coffee. If anyone asks, you’re waiting for me to finish my shift. That’s it. Don’t get cute. Don’t say anything about concussions, amnesia, or wandering the streets like a sad indie movie.”
He nods fast, already zeroing in on the sandwich pile like he’s spotted a life raft. And okay, maybe the tuna smells like cat food and regrets, but hunger doesn’t give a fuck about dignity.
“Go ahead,” I add, watching him peel back the cling film like it’s treasure. “They’re Rhonda’s. She hoards ’em like gold but she’ll forgive me. Probably. Eventually.”
He takes a bite and actually moans. Not sexy moan—more like a “holy shit food exists” moan. Which, honestly, same.
I raise an eyebrow. “Damn, Crash. If I knew you were that easy to impress, I would’ve offered you hospital meatloaf.”
He grins, mouth full. “Might be the best thing I’ve had all week.”
“That’s the saddest sentence I’ve heard all day, and I dealt with a guy who had a bottle stuck up his ass at 10 a.m.”
His smile gets a little bigger.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, tossing him a napkin. “We’ve got four more hours before we make our escape, and if Rhonda catches you eating her sandwich, you can deal with the fallout.”
He looks up at me, soft, grateful.
And fuck, I don’t say this often, but the breakroom’s never felt warmer.