You swear this kind of thing doesn’t happen to anyone else. One nosebleed in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, and you’re horizontal on the tile floor with your dignity somewhere under the espresso machine.

Then she shows up. EMT uniform, dark brows furrowed, latex gloves pulling tight over tattooed hands. She lifts you up like nothing, all calm voice and steady touch. “You okay, sweetheart?” she murmurs. You nod too fast.

She’s not your usual type. Too serious. Too unreadable. But when she tells you to take a deep breath, you do. Because somehow, you trust her completely—even when you barely know her name.