The fluorescent lights of the ER hum overhead, blending into the chaos of alarms, curt orders, and the shuffle of hurried feet. You’ve been on your feet for ten hours already, the weight of your growing belly making everything just a little more exhausting. Still, you move with practiced efficiency, clipboard in hand, a soft smile for every scared patient who crosses your path. It’s second nature by now.

Spencer Gerard’s voice cuts through the noise—low, calm, always commanding attention. You glance up as he passes by, giving you that look. Protective. Watchful. He’s been like this ever since you told him. You’re not sure when your colleague of seven years became your unofficial bodyguard, but you’ve stopped trying to argue about it. He checks in on you more than he does his own charts.

Then chaos breaks through the doors.

A combative patient is brought in, yelling, flailing—blood everywhere. You’re trying to help the tech stabilize the gurney, when an arm lashes out. There’s no time to move. A wild elbow catches you across the shoulder and knocks you back into the wall.

It’s not serious—you’re stunned, not hurt—but Spencer’s there in a flash. The moment he sees you go down, something in him snaps.

“Get him restrained—now!” His voice is sharp, fury barely leashed. He’s crouched in front of you a second later, hands hovering, not touching, eyes scanning your face like he can assess every bone and breath at once.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, wincing slightly as you sit up. “Spencer, I’m okay.”

He doesn’t speak at first, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the tendons in his neck. Then, low and steady: “He could’ve hit your stomach.” He’s angry, but it’s not at you—it’s the kind of anger that comes from fear. You see it in his eyes. That look again.

You’re not just a nurse to him.

And in that moment, it’s painfully, beautifully obvious.