As I finish up with Mrs. Franklin, I make sure her oxygen levels are steady, adjusting the flow with practiced precision. She's been in and out of this hospital more times than I can count, and I know what she needs before she even asks. Her frail hand gives mine a soft squeeze as I tuck the blanket around her, and she murmurs a quiet thank you. I smile back at her, the kind that reaches my eyes because Mrs. Franklin, despite all her ailments, has a way of making you feel appreciated.

"Take it easy, Mrs. Franklin," I say gently, my voice low so as not to disturb the other patients in the ward. "I'll be back to check on you in a bit."

She nods, her eyes already fluttering closed as the medication does its job. I take one last look at her before I head out, the door closing softly behind me.

The halls are busier than usual, a mix of staff and patients moving through the space with the kind of quiet urgency that's become so familiar to me. It's Friday night, which means the ER is probably bursting at the seams with all the weekend warriors who think they're invincible until they end up here. I smile to myself, thinking about the stories I could tell if I ever bothered to write them down. The bizarre injuries, the strange excuses, the occasional heartfelt moment that reminds me why I do this in the first place. It's all part of the job, and despite everything, I can't imagine doing anything else.

As I turn the corner, I almost collide with someone—a solid wall of muscle that forces me to take a step back. I look up, and of course, it's Declan Hale, Silvercrest's favorite cop, looking as annoyingly handsome as ever. I catch a whiff of something distinctly masculine—clean, like soap and just a hint of something woodsy—and it takes me a second to find my voice.

"Declan," I say, my voice carrying that mix of surprise and familiarity. "You should put a bell on or something."

He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound that always makes me wonder if he does it on purpose. It's the kind of laugh that vibrates through your chest. "Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you. Just came by to check on a buddy of mine who got in a bar fight last night. Thought I'd see if the hospital staff needed a little law and order while I'm here."

I roll my eyes, but there's no hiding the smile tugging at my lips. "Always the hero, aren't you?"

"Just doing my job," he says, his tone teasing but with a hint of something else—something that makes me wonder if he's as smooth as he lets on. He shifts slightly, and I notice the way his uniform stretches across his broad shoulders, the badge on his chest gleaming under the harsh hospital lights.

"Your buddy okay?" I ask, more to keep the conversation going than out of genuine concern. It's a safe question, one that doesn't require much emotional investment, and I'm grateful for that.

"Yeah, nothing too serious. Just a busted lip and a bruised ego. He'll live." Declan's gaze lingers on mine, and the hard lines around his eyes relax.

Maybe it's the sleep deprivation catching up with me, or the fact that I've been unintentionally celibate for longer than I'd like to admit, but Declan looks especially irresistible tonight. Even more so than usual. He's always been handsome, and he knows it, but tonight there's something about him that's downright delectable.

I clear my throat in an attempt to clear my thoughts. "Well, I'm sure the nurses here will take good care of him. They've got plenty of practice dealing with stubborn guys who don't know when to quit."

He smirks, and I can't help but notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I'll take your word for it. So, how's your night going?"

"It's a night," I say with a shrug, trying to keep it light. "Same as always. You know how it is."

"Yeah." There's a weight to his voice that makes me wonder if he really does know. "It's hard to switch off sometimes, isn't it? The job, I mean."

I blink, not expecting that level of insight from him. Declan's always been more of the silent, strong type—more action than words. But here he is, nailing the exact thought that's been circling in my mind for what feels like forever.

"Yeah," I admit, my voice softer now. "It is."

There's a pause, and for a second, it feels like there's something more. But then, just as quickly, the moment passes.

"Well," Declan says, straightening up, the easygoing smile back in place. "I should let you get back to it. Don't want to keep you from saving lives."

"Thanks," I say, and for some reason, my heart feels a little heavier as I watch him walk away.

I shake it off, reminding myself that I've got patients waiting. There's no time for...whatever that was. But as I move through the next few tasks, I can't stop thinking about the way Declan looked at me, like he actually saw me, and not just the nurse who's always on the move. It's unsettling, and maybe a little flattering, though I'm not sure what to make of it. All I know is that I can't afford to dwell on it. Not now.

The rest of the night blurs by in a series of routine checks and procedures, each one blending into the next until I'm functioning on autopilot. It's easier that way, letting my body go through the motions while my mind drifts elsewhere. It's safer, too. But even as I try to focus on my work, Declan's words keep echoing in my head, that quiet understanding in his voice making me feel more exposed than I'd like.

**

The morning half of my shift is in full swing, and the hum of noise is like a low-grade buzz in the back of my mind. The adrenaline that kept me sharp through the night is starting to wear off, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue that I know all too well. But there's still work to be done, and the thought of collapsing into bed is a distant fantasy. I've got hours to go before that becomes a reality.

I'm in the middle of checking in on one of my post-op patients, an elderly man recovering from a hip replacement, when I feel it—a slight tension in the air, like the atmosphere has shifted. I don't need to turn around to know who it is, but I do anyway, because ignoring Dr. Adrian Stone is never a good idea.

He's standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room even though he hasn't said a word. Tall, with dark hair that's always neatly combed back, and eyes that are as cold as the surgical steel he works with. Adrian Stone is the kind of man who commands attention without even trying, and I hate that I notice it. But I do.

"Dr. Stone," I say, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. "What can I do for you?"

His gaze sweeps over me, as clinical and detached as ever. "I need an update on Mr. Callahan's vitals."

I nod, turning back to my patient's chart and quickly scanning the numbers before relaying them to him. My voice is steady, professional, even though I can feel the tension in my shoulders ratchet up a notch.

"Blood pressure is stable, 120 over 80," I report, not bothering to look at him. "Pulse is within normal limits, and his oxygen saturation is holding at 98 percent. No signs of post-op complications so far."

Adrian grunts in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable. "Keep monitoring him closely. He's at risk for clotting."

I nod again, biting back the urge to say something snarky. Adrian Stone is not a man who appreciates sarcasm or banter. He's all about efficiency and precision, and any attempt at lightening the mood would only be met with that cold, unblinking stare of his.

"Will do," I say, my tone clipped.

There's a beat of silence, and I can feel his eyes on me, assessing, calculating. It's the way he looks at everyone, like he's weighing their worth in his mind, deciding if they're up to his impossibly high standards. I should be used to it by now, but it still gets under my skin, that constant sense of being judged and found lacking.

"You look tired," he says suddenly, his voice devoid of any real concern. It's more of an observation than anything else, but it catches me off guard.

I bristle slightly, my back straightening instinctively. "It's been a long night."

"Longer than it needs to be if you don't take care of yourself," he replies, his tone as blunt as ever. "You're not much use to your patients if you're running on fumes."

And there it is—the Adrian Stone special, where he manages to turn what could be a well-meaning comment into something that feels more like a reprimand. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep my cool.

"I'm fine," I say, more curtly than I intended. "I've got it under control."

He raises a thick eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my response. "If you say so."

There's another pause, one that stretches on just a bit too long, and I wonder if he's going to push the issue further. But then, without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving me standing there with a mix of frustration and lingering tension.

I let out a breath, shaking my head as I finish up with my patient. Adrian has a way of getting under my skin like no one else can. It's not just his bluntness, though that's certainly part of it. It's the way he carries himself, that air of superiority that makes you feel like you're always one step behind. Like no matter how hard you work, it'll never be enough to earn his respect. He really upholds the asshole doctor stereotype.

Not that I'm looking for his approval, I remind myself as I move on to my next task. I've got more important things to worry about than what Adrian Stone thinks of me. But still, there's a part of me that wishes he'd at least acknowledge the effort. That he'd see me as more than just another cog in the machine. But I know better than to hope for that.

As I make my rounds, I can't help but replay the conversation in my head, dissecting every word, every look. It's a bad habit, one I wish I could break, but it's hard not to when every interaction with Adrian leaves me feeling like I've just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring. He's exhausting in a way that has nothing to do with the hours I work.