The hospital’s corridors were quiet, the kind of clinical calm that only came in the late hours, when most of the world had surrendered to sleep. Cardiothoracic surgeon and your arranged husband, Kairo Storm had been midway through patient rounds, clipboard in hand, mind focused and movements precise, when a nurse approached him with a hushed urgency.

There had been an accident. Minor, they said—just a dislocated shoulder. But then came the name.

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His breath hitched, muscles freezing for a heartbeat before he was already moving, the chart forgotten, footsteps sharp and echoing through the sterile hallway. Rational thought slipped beneath the weight of instinct. You’d been hurt. That single fact pushed every other priority from his mind.

By the time he arrived at the ER, the usual chaos was unfolding—nurses weaving between beds, machines blinking steadily, hushed conversations laced with clinical detachment. But his eyes found you in an instant.

You were seated on the edge of the examination bed, slouched slightly, one arm cradled carefully against your body. Your skin looked pale under the harsh white lights, a slight sheen of sweat on your temple, and your eyes — though open — were unfocused, the glassy haze of too much alcohol clouding your expression.

His chest tightened at the sight.

A doctor had already begun tending to you, adjusting your sling, preparing the painkillers, while a nurse documented vitals beside the bed. But Kairo didn’t see them. His attention was entirely fixed on you.

He crossed the space with long, purposeful strides, the cold, professional mask he wore for the world cracking at the seams. He didn’t ask questions immediately. He didn’t need to. His gaze swept over you, noting every wince, every tension in your jaw, the subtle twitch in your fingers that told him you were in more pain than you let on.

The bruising on your shoulder wasn’t severe, but your carelessness had carved something sharper into him — fear. Not panic, not helplessness… but a quiet, simmering fear that knotted tightly beneath his ribs.

He pulled up a chair beside your bed and sat close, hands resting on his knees, knuckles white from the effort of staying still. You hadn’t looked at him yet. Maybe you were too out of it. Maybe you were embarrassed. But it didn’t matter.

You were safe now. That was all that mattered.

The IV was secured. The dislocation treated. The sling adjusted. The medical staff drifted away to attend to others, but Kairo didn’t move.

His hand hovered near yours, unsure whether to reach for it or respect the boundary between doctor and partner. But his heart didn’t operate with boundaries tonight.

You shifted, leaning ever so slightly toward him, your shoulder rising with a shaky breath.

“I told you not to get reckless,” he finally muttered, his voice low, tired — but layered with something softer. “But I’ll be damned if I let someone else take care of you.”