Chapter One Hundred Twenty: The Stranger in My Room
The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not the sterile chill of hospital sheets or the cold press of fluorescent light, but warmth—solid and steady and wrapped around my hand like it belonged there. Like it had been there for a long time.
I blinked.
The ceiling was white. The walls were white. The light filtering through the blinds was pale and thin, the weak grey of a winter morning. Machines beeped somewhere to my left, a slow, steady rhythm that matched the pulse beating in my wrist.
And beside me—
A man.
He was slumped in the chair beside my bed, his head bowed, his dark hair falling across his forehead. His hand was wrapped around mine, his fingers long and warm, his grip loose but present, like he'd been holding on even in sleep.
His face was turned toward me, half-hidden in shadow, but I could see enough.
The sharp line of his jaw. The curve of his lips. The dark sweep of his lashes against pale cheeks.
Beautiful.
The word floated through my mind, soft and surprised. He was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you want to look twice, that made you forget to breathe, that made you wonder if you were dreaming.
Maybe I was dreaming.
I tried to sit up. My body protested—stiff, sore, weighted down by something I couldn't name. The movement jostled the bed, and the man stirred.
His eyes opened.
Dark. Deep. Filled with something that looked like hope and fear and a desperate, aching relief all tangled together.
"Angel." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "Hey, hey! Angel! You woke up!" He sat up straight, his hand tightening around mine, his other hand reaching for my face but stopping just short, hovering like he was afraid to touch. "Finally. Is this a dream? You really woke—"
"Where am I?"
The words came out dry, cracked. I tried to sit up again, and he was there immediately, his arm sliding behind my shoulders, supporting me, easing me back against the pillows with a gentleness that made my chest ache for reasons I didn't understand.
"Don't rush, baby." His voice was soft now, soothing. "You're in the hospital. You've been—" He swallowed. "You've been asleep for a while."
"Where am I?" I asked again, looking around the room. White walls. Machines. A window that showed a grey sky and bare trees. "Who am I? Who are you? Why can't I remember anything?"
The questions tumbled out, faster and faster, each one sparking a new wave of panic in my chest. I pressed my hand to my head, feeling the bandage wrapped around my temple, the dull throb beneath.
"Ahh! My head hurts!"
His face went pale.
"Doctor!" He was on his feet, shouting toward the door, his voice sharp with panic. "Doctor, come quickly! Something's happening to my wife!"
Wife.
The word echoed in my head, strange and unfamiliar.
Wife.
His wife.
The door opened, and a woman in a white coat hurried in, her face calm but her eyes sharp. She asked questions I couldn't answer, shined lights in my eyes I couldn't focus, pressed cold metal to my chest while I trembled and shook my head and tried to remember something—anything—that would make sense of the world I'd woken up in.
"She's lost her memories," the doctor said finally, her voice gentle but clinical. "The trauma of the incident—the bullet, the blood loss, the stress on her system—it's caused a complete retrograde amnesia. Her past, her identity, the people she loved—it's all been erased."
"Erased?" His voice cracked. "How can it be erased?"
"The mind is a fragile thing, Mr. Kim. It protects itself in ways we don't always understand. The fact that she woke up at all—" The doctor paused, her expression softening. "That's a miracle. We didn't expect her to regain consciousness for days, maybe weeks. Her body is fighting. Her mind is fighting. But forcing her to remember—pushing her too hard—could cause more damage."
"Damage?"
"She could have seizures. Severe migraines. Psychological distress that could set back her recovery significantly." The doctor glanced at me, then back at him. "For now, it's best to keep her environment calm. Don't introduce her to people or places that might trigger overwhelming emotions. Let her heal. Let her memories return on their own, if they return at all."
"If they return at all," he repeated.
The doctor nodded. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kim."
---
He didn't leave my side.
Even after the doctor left, even after the nurses came and went, checking my vitals, adjusting my IV, murmuring words I didn't understand—he stayed. His hand found mine again, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, his eyes fixed on my face like he was afraid I'd disappear if he looked away.
I watched him.
The way his jaw tightened when he thought I wasn't looking. The way his shoulders slumped, just slightly, when the nurses weren't paying attention. The way he brushed his thumb across my knuckles, over and over, like he was memorizing the shape of my hand.
"Who are you?" I asked again, my voice softer this time.
He looked up.
His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted, but when they met mine, they softened. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, his fingers lingering against my skin.
"Angel," he said quietly. "You don't remember?"
"Who are you?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. I saw something flicker across his face—a lie forming, a truth being swallowed.
"I'm…" He paused. "I'm your doctor."
I raised an eyebrow.
He was lying. I didn't know how I knew—I didn't know anything, not really—but I knew that. He was lying.
"Doctor?" I repeated. "A very handsome doctor who is taking care of me like this? Suspicious."
He blinked. "Suspicious?"
"You're holding my hand." I looked down at our joined fingers. "Doctors don't hold their patients' hands like this. Do they?"
His grip tightened, just slightly. "No," he admitted. "They don't."
"Then who are you?"
He stared at me for a long moment. His jaw worked. His throat moved. His eyes—those dark, beautiful eyes—were bright with something that looked like tears.
"I'm…" He swallowed. "I'm someone who cares about you very much."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you right now."
I studied him.
The exhaustion in his face. The hope in his eyes. The way his thumb kept tracing circles on my palm, like he couldn't bear to stop touching me.
"You're handsome," I said finally. "You're my personal doctor? What does 'doctor' mean?"
He stared at me.
Then, slowly—so slowly I almost missed it—a smile touched his lips. Small. Sad. But real.
"It means I'm here to help you," he said. "To keep you safe. To make sure you get better."
"And after I get better?"
His smile faded. "After you get better, we'll figure out the rest."
I didn't understand.
But I was too tired to ask more questions.
My eyes were heavy, my body sinking back into the pillows, the warmth of his hand the only thing anchoring me to the waking world.
"Will you be here when I wake up?" I murmured.
His hand tightened around mine.
"I'll be here," he said. "I'll always be here."
I closed my eyes.
And I slept.