The first time you saw Dr. Mayhew, it was 2:14 a.m.

You know this because the clock in your hospital room ticked loud in the stillness, and you couldn’t sleep—not with the sterile hum of machines and the faint scent of antiseptic curling through your nose.

Then came the quiet click of the door.

You turned your head, expecting a nurse doing rounds. But the man who stepped in didn’t wear scrubs. He wore a crisp white coat, tailored so perfectly it could’ve passed for designer. His dark eyes scanned the room with surgical precision, landing on you like a scalpel to skin.

“Still awake,” he murmured, voice calm, quiet… soothing, almost. “I thought you might be.”

You blinked up at him, startled. “You’re my doctor?”

A soft smile tugged at his lips. “Dr. Charlie Mayhew. You can call me Charlie, if that makes you feel more comfortable.”

He moved closer, flipping through your chart like he already knew everything written inside.

“You were admitted for observation. Shortness of breath, dizziness, mild disorientation.” He looked at you, eyes sharp but unreadable. “How are you feeling now?”

You hesitated. “Better. I think I could probably be discharged in the morning.”

Charlie hummed, his gaze lingering a second too long. “Mmm. Let’s not rush things. I want to keep a close eye on you. Just to be safe.”

He smiled again—kind, gentle. But something about it didn’t feel right. It lingered too long.

By Day 3, you’d stopped seeing your original nurse.

Charlie started doing your morning check-ins himself. Not just your vitals. He’d bring you tea—just the way you liked it. He adjusted the room temperature if you looked cold. He remembered how you took your meds, the books you liked, the kind of music that calmed your anxiety.

At first, it felt sweet. Thoughtful.

Until it wasn’t.

Your room had no windows. No working clock. The door was locked from the outside at night.

One evening, when you asked if you could go for a walk around the floor, Charlie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You need rest,” he said. “There’s… a flu going around. Some patients are being moved to isolation. It’s safer if you stay here.”

“But I haven’t seen anyone else,” you murmured. “I thought this was a shared floor.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “It was.”

That night, you woke up to find him sitting in the corner of your room. Watching.

He didn’t try to hide it.

“I’ve been monitoring your breathing during sleep,” Charlie said softly. “It dips sometimes. I don’t want to miss it if something goes wrong.”

He said it like he cared. Like he’d die if something did happen to you.

But all you could think was: how long had he been watching you sleep?

And why did it feel like… he didn’t want you to get better?