The hospital floor was unusually loud that afternoon — nurses rushing back and forth, phones ringing nonstop, and me standing at the nurses' station signing paperwork.
"Dr. Huo," Nurse Beatrice called as she approached. "The gala committee just informed us that a media interview has been added."
My pen froze mid-signature. "What? Why?"
Beatrice lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "Apparently the sponsors want more exposure."
I finished signing the paper and handed it back to the nurse before grabbing my phone. As I walked away from the station, I pulled up Harley's number and pressed call.
He answered on the second ring.
"Hello."
"Harley," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. I slipped into a storage room and quietly shut the door behind me. "Why is there going to be a media interview?"
"Sophie, I need you to calm down."
I drew in a slow breath and forced myself to steady. "I already reluctantly agreed to give the speech. Now I have to do an interview too?"
"You'll be fine," he said evenly. "I'll be there with you."
My grip tightened around the phone. "Is that really a good idea? You know how nosy reporters can be."
Harley let out a quiet chuckle.
"I'm serious," I said, lowering my voice. Why is he taking this so lightly? "You know they're going to bring us up."
There was a brief pause on the other end before his tone shifted.
"Let me deal with that," he said calmly. "You just show up as my date."
"Your date?" I repeated, caught off guard.
"You don't want to?"
I sank down onto an empty box against the wall, my pulse suddenly louder in my ears. "I—"
A knock interrupted me.
"Dr. Huo? The patient in room 319 has a question for you."
I closed my eyes for half a second.
"Coming," I called out, then lifted the phone back to my ear. "Sorry, Harley. I have to go."
Before he could respond, I ended the call and stepped out of the storage room.
That evening, I stood outside Harley's bedroom door, gripping the binder against my chest a little tighter than necessary.
I hadn't called him back, and I still hadn't given him an answer. Truthfully, I didn't know how to.
After steadying myself, I knocked.
"It's open."
I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
Harley was walking out of his bathroom, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp. He wasn't wearing a shirt.
Heat rushed to my face before I could stop it.
"Is this a bad time?" I asked, forcing my gaze toward the bookshelf instead.
From the corner of my eye, I saw his lips curve slightly.
"Why are you acting like you haven't seen me shirtless before?" he asked, amusement threading through his voice.
I exhaled quietly and walked farther into the room, lowering myself onto the edge of his bed while keeping a careful distance.
"That's not the point," I muttered. "Can we go over my speech?"
He pulled a shirt over his head before walking toward his desk. I pretended not to notice the way my pulse hadn't quite settled yet.
"Let me see it," he said, reaching for the binder.
I handed it over and shifted slightly on the bed, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my skirt.
He flipped through the pages quietly, scanning each paragraph with practiced focus. The room felt smaller somehow — quieter than usual. Outside, the city lights blinked through the windows, steady and distant.
"You're overthinking the second section," he said after a moment. "Shorten it. Keep it direct. The message is strong. Don't dilute it."
I watched him as he spoke, the calm authority in his tone oddly reassuring.
"I'm not used to reporters," I admitted. "Patients don't interrupt you halfway through a sentence."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Reporters aren't that different. They just like hearing their own voices more."
I rolled my eyes softly.
He turned a page. "After the interview, you'll leave with me."
I blinked. "What?"
"You'll leave with me," he repeated, still scanning the paper as if he hadn't just shifted the air between us. "As my date."
The word settled heavily in the space.
"Harley—"
"It will minimize speculation," he continued calmly. "If they see us aligned publicly, they'll lose interest faster."
I stood up slowly. "You make it sound like a business strategy."
He finally looked up at me then.
"It is," he said. But there was something in his eyes that didn't feel professional at all.
My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the binder.
"And if I say no?"
His jaw flexed once before smoothing out again. "You won't."
The confidence in his voice wasn't arrogance. It was certainty. The kind that had always made me both safe… and terrified.
Part of me bristled at the assumption. The way he always seemed so sure of what I would do, what I would choose.
And yet… another part of me relaxed.
Because when Harley sounded like that, it meant he already had everything under control. I hated that it still made me feel safe.
"You don't get to decide for me," I said quietly.
"I'm not deciding for you," he replied, closing the binder and setting it aside. "I'm making it easier."
"For who?"
"For you."
His answer came too quickly.
I swallowed.
The room felt smaller again.
He stood, closing the distance between us without hesitation. Not invading. Not touching. Just near enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"You're scared of what they'll ask," he said calmly. "You're scared they'll bring up the past."
My breath caught slightly.
"And if they do," he continued, voice lowering just a fraction, "you won't be standing alone."
There it was. The safety. The trap. Both wrapped in the same sentence. I looked away first.
"I'll think about it," I murmured.
His gaze lingered on me for a second longer before he stepped back.
"Good," he said. He didn't push further. He didn't need to.
I remained standing for a moment, watching him gather the papers from the bed.
"Fine," I said quietly. "I'll go as your date."
He didn't react the way I expected. No smug smile. No triumphant look. He simply nodded once, as if that had already been the outcome.
"Good," he said, walking back toward his desk.
I crossed my arms lightly. "You're not even going to pretend to ask nicely?"
He opened a drawer and pulled something out.
"I don't need to," he replied calmly.
When he turned around, a black card rested between his fingers.
He walked toward me and held it out.
"For your dress."
I stared at it. "Harley—"
"It's a formal gala," he said, as if explaining basic math. "You'll need something appropriate."
"I can buy my own dress."
"I know," he replied evenly. "Use it anyway."
There was no force in his tone. No insistence. Just quiet certainty. The card remained extended between us.
After a second, I reached for it. Our fingers brushed briefly before separating.
"You're unbelievable," I muttered.
A faint smile ghosted across his lips.
"You'll look good in anything," he said casually, turning back toward his desk. "But don't make it boring."
I rolled my eyes, slipping the card into my binder. As I walked toward the door, I paused. "Harley."
He glanced up.
"Thank you."
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
"Don't overthink it," he said.
I stepped out of his room with the black card tucked safely away, my pulse far less steady than I wanted to admit.
Because the card wasn't just about a dress. It was about standing beside him. And for the first time since I came back, that didn't feel impossible.