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The dam bursts. Colleagues surround me, nurses, doctors, orderlies all welcoming me with open arms and bright smiles. Their enthusiasm envelops me, warm and genuine.

“We missed you so much,” Karen says, pulling me into a careful hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I manage, blinking back tears. “Much better.”

Dr. Erma, one of the attending physicians, clasps my shoulder. “Good to have you back. The unit hasn’t been the same without you.”

I’m ushered to the break room where a small Welcome Back sign hangs over the table, surrounded by a spread of baked goods and coffee. The sight of the hand-drawn sign and the smell of Karen’s famous lemon loaf make a welcome ache bloom in my chest. This is my family, too.

As the morning progresses, I settle into the familiar rhythm of the hospital. My first patient is an elderly woman recovering from hip surgery, and as I help her sit up and check her vital signs, I notice my hands are steady, my voice is calm, and none of it is an act. This is where I belong, helping others, easing pain, making a difference.

By lunchtime, the strangeness of being back has faded, replaced by comfortable familiarity. I’m sitting in the cafeteria with a few colleagues when I feel my phone buzz. Carter’s name flashes on the screen.

How’s your first day back?

I smile, typing quickly. Good. Really good. Everyone’s being so supportive.

His response comes immediately. Of course they are. You’re amazing.

Heat rises to my cheeks. I lock my phone and focus on my sandwich, but my mind keeps returning to Carter, to the faint smile on his face yesterday when he thought I’d finally mastered a block, his eyes focused entirely on me.

“Are you okay?” Karen asks, noticing my distraction.

I nod, taking a sip of water. “Just adjusting. It’s been a while.”

She studies me for a moment, then smiles knowingly. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with that hulking guy who’s been circling the parking lot all morning, would it?”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“Broad shoulders, all in black, looks like he could get into a fight and win,” she says with a wink. “He’s been parked over at the far end of the lot for the last hour. Security even went over, but he just said he was waiting for someone.”

Carter. He came to make sure I was okay. The thought sends a happy, nervous buzz through me.

I excuse myself and head for the nearest window. Sure enough, there he is, perched on his bike at the far end of the parking lot, his cut gleaming in the sunlight. Even from this distance, his posture is unmistakable, a solid, watchful presence at the edge of the lot, his head constantly turning as he scans his surroundings.

Without thinking, I pull out my phone and text him: I see you, stalker.

His head dips as he checks his phone, then his posture changes, relaxing slightly as he reads my message. When he looks up, I wave from the window. He raises a hand in acknowledgment, a ghost of a smile crossing his face.

Couldn’t stay away, he texts back. Making sure you’re safe.

A part of me knows I should be annoyed. Instead, seeing him out there, a silent guardian, doesn’t make me feel weak. It makes me feel anchored. I’m fine. But you could buy me dinner tonight to celebrate my first day back?

The response is immediate. Name the time and place.

As I head back to the break room, my phone buzzes again. Morgan this time. Matthew says Carter’s been lurking at the hospital all morning. That man has it bad.

I smile, pocketing my phone. Maybe after everything we’ve been through, that’s exactly what I need.

The afternoon is a flurry of patient care and charting. By the time my shift ends, my feet ache, but my mind is humming. It’s an exhaustion that hums with purpose. This is what I was meant to do, this helping, this healing, this connection with patients who need care and compassion.

As I change out of my scrubs, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The bruises have faded to faint yellow shadows, barely noticeable. But the person looking back at me isn’t the same. My eyes seem clearer, more focused. The exhaustion I’ve carried for weeks has finally begun to recede.

The evening air is cool against my skin as I leave the hospital. Carter is still there, waiting by his bike. When he sees me, his face softens around the eyes, that slight tilt of his head becoming painfully familiar.

“Hi,” he says, straightening from his casual perch against the motorcycle.

“Hi yourself.” I stop a few feet away, suddenly aware of the hospital staff watching us from the windows. “You didn’t have to wait all day.”