The Protector Who Sees My Wounds: Stolen Glances: Chapter 2

He guards my secrets like his own

Three days pass before I see him again.

I'm restocking supplies in trauma bay two when his voice cuts through the controlled chaos of the ER.

"I need two units of O-neg, stat."

Professional. Commanding. Nothing like the whispered gentleness from that midnight encounter.

But when he glances up from his patient, his eyes find mine across the room. [heartbeat]

And hold.

For exactly three seconds, the rest of the world disappears. Then Dr. Martinez calls my name, reality crashes back, and Gabriel's attention returns to saving a life.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything didn't just shift between us.

"You okay, Emma?" Martinez asks, following my gaze.

"Fine." That word again. My favorite lie.

But I'm not fine. I'm thinking about fingers on my chin and the weight of secrets shared in fluorescent shadows. I'm thinking about the way Gabriel's voice went soft when he said we all have scars.

I'm thinking about him entirely too much.

The next morning, I find a coffee on my locker. No note. Just perfect—cream, no sugar, exactly how I take it.

Exactly how I ordered it three days ago when he was close enough to hear.

"Secret admirer?" Jenny from pediatrics grins, bumping my shoulder.

"Probably just a mix-up," I lie, but warmth spreads through my chest anyway.

That afternoon, Gabriel appears beside me in the supply closet.

"How's the cut?" he asks, and his proximity makes me dizzy.

"Healing."

"Good." He reaches past me for gauze, his arm brushing mine. The contact is electric, deliberate. "Emma."

My name in his voice sounds different. Careful. Like he's testing how it feels on his tongue.

"Yes?"

"If you ever need... that is, if the bad nights get too much..." He's looking at his hands instead of me. "I'm usually in the south stairwell around midnight. Reading journals. Sometimes the quiet helps."

It's not an invitation. Not exactly.

It's an offering.

"Gabriel—"

"Dr. Santos?" A resident pokes her head in. "We need you in trauma two."

He straightens, professional mask sliding back into place. But before he leaves, his fingers brush mine.

Quick. Warm. Intentional.

"The south stairwell," he repeats quietly. "If you need it."

[footsteps fading]

I stand there for five full minutes, staring at the space where he was.

That night, I lie in bed thinking about quiet stairwells and journal pages and the way his thumb felt against my skin. I think about the loneliness I heard in his voice, the careful distance he keeps from everyone else.

I think about how he's the only person who's seen me break and didn't try to fix me.

Just sat with me in it.

At 11:47 PM, I slip on my shoes.

The south stairwell is empty, echoing with the distant sounds of the hospital's night shift. I'm about to turn back when I hear pages rustling one flight up.

He's there. Reading by the dim emergency lighting, shoulders curved over a medical journal like he's searching for answers to questions that have nothing to do with medicine.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask softly.

He looks up, and something like relief crosses his face.

"Never can," he admits.

I sit beside him on the cold concrete steps, and we don't talk about why we're here. Don't talk about the distance we're supposed to maintain or the policies we're probably violating.

We just sit in the comfortable darkness, two insomniacs stealing moments that don't belong to us.

But when his shoulder presses against mine, warm and solid and real, I start to think maybe they do.

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