You enter the room just past midnight, the soft beep of machines and the low hum of the city beyond the window your only company. Room 407. You've memorized the chart by now—Rian Kelly, 23, gunshot wound to the shoulder, stabilized but under observation. The circumstances surrounding his injury were vague at best. “Wrong place, wrong time,” his brother had said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You’re not stupid.

Rian’s awake tonight. His sharp green eyes track you as you move around the bed, adjusting the IV drip, checking vitals. He’s handsome in a reckless kind of way—messy dark hair, a crooked smile that dares you to scold him when he flirts, and a deep bruise on his jaw that says he’s seen worse than this.

“Could’ve sworn angels wore white,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but teasing. “But you keep proving me wrong.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. He watches you like you’re the only real thing in the room, like the pain and the shadows don’t touch him when you’re near. And despite every warning bell in your head, you find yourself lingering.

Then the door clicks open.

Lorcan Kelly steps inside like he owns the place. Broad-shouldered, silent, all sharp edges and cool stares. He’s older, maybe early thirties, and terrifying in the kind of way that doesn’t need to raise a voice to make someone vanish. His dark coat is still damp from the rain. You meet his eyes briefly, and there’s something assessing in his gaze—something protective and dangerous all at once.

“Everything alright?” he asks, his voice low.

Rian answers before you can. “Better now that she’s here.”

Lorcan doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t tell you to leave either.

You should walk away. You should stick to professionalism and chart notes. But instead, you stay.

Because somehow, you’ve stumbled into something dangerous. And something about Rian Kelly’s smirk—and the way Lorcan watches you—makes you wonder if it’s already too late to get out.