Patient Casey Robin, Ward A. Initiated unsolicited physical contact during corridor interaction (gripped monitor's wrist, sustained hold). Described future plans involving this monitor in specific, familiar terms inconsistent with any existing relationship. Presentation consistent with erotomanic delusional framework—fixed belief in reciprocal romantic attachment. Intensity of focus notably elevated compared to previous interactions. Recommend: (1) medication review, (2) reassessment of current movement privileges, (3) supervised corridor access only until clinical evaluation complete.
I drop the form in Kennedy's inbox, leave a copy with Hudson's admin, and file the original in my monitoring records.
Nobody calls me back about it.
By Thursday evening, the clinical concern is four days old and no one has responded. I check Kennedy's inbox on my way out—the form is gone, nothing in its place.
I need to be somewhere else tonight.
Gage picked a diner forty minutes outside the city. Far enough that we won't run into anyone from the facility, close enough that the drive isn't awkward. When he gave me the address, he said, "No uniforms, no badges. Just dinner."
Just dinner, as if dinner with Gage outside the facility could ever be just anything.
I spent an hour getting ready, which is forty-five minutes longer than I've spent on my appearance in months. The mirror shows someone I barely recognize—hair down in loose wavesthat took three passes with the curling iron, full face of makeup that Mishel helped me perfect over a video call.
"Holy shit," she said when I showed her the finished product. "Who are you trying to impress?"
"Myself."
"Liar. Send pictures."
The dress is simple—black, fitted, nothing dramatic. But with the waves and the makeup and the heels I dug out of the back of my closet, the overall effect is different. This isn't facility-Hope or gym-Hope or weekend-on-the-couch-Hope.
This is someone else entirely.
The diner is chrome and red vinyl, a throwback place with a neon sign that probably hasn't been updated since the seventies. The parking lot is half-full when I pull in, mostly pickup trucks and older sedans.
I spot Gage's truck right away.He's standing by the hood, jacket off, watching the road.Waiting for me.
He doesn't move when my car pulls up beside him.Just watches me park.
I get out of the car and his whole body goes still. His arms drop to his sides. He starts to say something, stops, tries again.
"Fuck, Hope."
"Too much?"
"No." The word comes out rough. "Not even close. You're stunning."
We stand there for a moment—him taking me in outside a uniform for the first time, me feeling powerful in a way I neverdo at the facility. Whatever started between us in a facility corridor has room to breathe out here.
"You hungry?" he manages.
"Starving."
The inside of the diner matches the outside—red booths, checkerboard floor, a counter lined with stools and coffee carafes. A waitress who's seen everything barely blinks at us, just points to an empty booth and says she'll be by in a minute.
Gage sits across from me. The booth is small enough that our knees almost touch under the table.
"I've been coming here since I got back from my last deployment," he says, answering a question I didn't ask. "The food's nothing special but the coffee's good and they don't ask questions."
"Questions about what?"
"Anything." He shrugs. "I was kind of a mess for a while. Coming home, my divorce, the transition. This place was open twenty-four hours and they'd let me sit in a corner booth at 3 a.m. and drink coffee until I could sleep."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." He meets my eyes. "But it's better now."
