The second his hand closed around my shoulder,

The corridor outside Suite 914 smelled of industrial floor stripper, cold coffee, and the faint, synthetic tang of ozone from the air handlers.

At 2:24 a.m., the hallway was a long, cavernous tunnel of polished white linoleum, illuminated only by the dim amber nightlights set into the baseboards. At the far end, behind the curved acrylic reception counter, the back of Charge Nurse Vance’s white uniform was visible, his head nodding forward as he scrolled through a tablet.

I slipped out of the room, my heart pounding a frantic cadence against my ribs.

The service closet door gave a quiet, hydraulic hiss as I eased it open. Tucked behind three rolling hampers of soiled blue scrubs sat the chrome frame of a folding transport chair. I grabbed the rubber handles, lifted the front wheels off the floor to prevent the rusted casters from squeaking, and backed out into the hall.

Inside Suite 914, Owen was already moving.

It was an agonizing, brutal spectacle of pure willpower over failing flesh. He had managed to swing his legs over the side of the hospital bed, his bare feet hovering two inches above the floor. His hospital gown hung loosely from his broad, emaciated shoulders, revealing the jagged, pale surgical scars along his ribs where the trauma team had reconstructed his chest cavity two years ago.

"Lean on me," I whispered, lunging forward to catch him as his torso tilted dangerously forward.

The moment his feet touched the cold vinyl, a sharp, choked gasp tore from his throat. His knees buckled instantly, his joints popping with dry, sickening clicks as his weight collapsed into my arms.

He was heavy—easily six-foot-two, with dense bone structure that even twenty-four months of bed rest hadn't completely eroded. The clean, masculine scent of his skin—faint sandalwood soap and cold sweat—enveloped me as his arm locked around my neck, his fingers burying into the fabric of my scrub top.

"I've got you," I grunted, bracing my legs against the bed frame, using my center of gravity to haul his deadweight across the two-foot gap into the transport chair.

He hit the vinyl seat with a breathless groan, his head falling back against the headrest, his gray eyes rolling slightly as orthostatic hypotension drained the blood from his brain.

"Breathe," I ordered, wrapping a heavy dark wool patient blanket around his legs, then tossing an oversized green surgical scrub jacket over his shoulders. I pulled the hood up, casting his sharp, recognizable features in deep shadow.

2:28 a.m.

I grabbed the push handles, turned the chair toward the door, and took a deep, stabilizing breath. If we were stopped, if Vance turned around, if the security guard walked out of the break room—it was over. I would lose my license, my freedom, and likely my life.

I pushed the door open.

The hallway was deadly quiet. I kept the wheelchair moving at a brisk, purposeful nurse’s pace—not running, not lingering. In a hospital, the fastest way to invite scrutiny is to look like you're trying not to be seen.

We passed the nurses' station.

Vance didn't look up from his tablet. "Room 908 needs fresh towels, Nora," he muttered absently, his pen scratching against a clipboard.

"On it after I drop this discharge at the lab," I replied, my voice miraculously steady, though my fingers were clamped around the rubber handles so hard they were white.

"Hurry it up. The storm's getting worse outside."

We rounded the corner toward the freight elevator.

I swiped my plastic magnetic badge against the brass reader. The heavy steel doors parted with a groaning rattle that sounded like a gunshot in the silent corridor. I backed the chair inside, punched the button for Basement Level 2, and watched the doors slide shut, severing us from the ninth floor.

Inside the rattling cage of the industrial lift, Owen’s hand reached up, finding my wrist once more.

His grip was no longer trembling. The fire of returning consciousness was burning through the fog of the drugs, his pulse throbbing strong and rhythmic beneath my fingers.

"Where do we go when we hit the street, Mr. Hartley?" I asked, watching the floor indicator lights descend: 7... 6... 5...