There had been a major accident on the motorway involving a bus and a drunk driver, and because our hospital was closest to the scene, patients kept flooding into the emergency department in relentless waves. Families crowded the corridors outside the ward, demanding answers, clinging to hope whilst breaking apart in real-time.
No matter how many years I had spent working as a nurse, I didn't think I would ever grow numb to it.
Telling parents their child hadn't survived. Then watching children realize they had just lost a parent. Seeing a husband crumble after learning his wife had died in the most painful way possible, before the ambulance had even arrived.
These moments never became easier, no matter how much I tried to harden myself against them.
By the time I finally managed to catch a break, exhaustion sat so heavily in my bones I could barely feel my feet anymore. I had just stepped out of the operating theatre after assisting in yet another surgery when I made my way into the break room, still dressed in my scrubs streaked with the faint evidence of a fourteen-hour shift.
Dr.Madakwe had already changed back into his white coat, preparing for his rounds upstairs. He paused lightly at the doorway just as I took a bite from the apple that was, depressingly, my first meal of the day.
"Elena," he called gently. "How are you feeling?"
I looked up at him, swallowing slowly before leaning back in my chair with a tired exhale.
"Physically or mentally?" I asked dryly.
"You know what I mean," he said, taking a seat at the small table across from me.
I let out a tired breath, rolling the apple between my palms. "If this is about—"
"No," he cut in gently. "I'm worried about you. After all, I was the one who dragged you into this mess in the first place."
"You didn't drag me into anything, Dr. Madakwe," I said with a small, weary smile. "I'm fine. Just tired. Which, admittedly, is not exactly new for me."
His expression softened, though concern still lingered there.
"Marcus has been staying at my place," he said after a moment. "He's been trying to understand how life works here. Looking for ways to earn a living. A purpose." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The man was deeply offended when I explained rent."
Despite myself, I huffed out a quiet laugh.
"He truly wanted to stay," Dr. Madakwe continued more seriously now.
My chest tightened slightly at that.
"I know," I said softly, taking another bite of the apple mostly to avoid looking at him directly. "That's...good. That he's trying."
Dr. Madakwe studied me for a moment before speaking again.
"Take it from an old man, Elena," he said quietly, and this time I finally looked up at him. "Do not let the past decide the shape of your future."
Something in his tone made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
"You have a good life here," he continued. "People who love you. Parents who raised you well. Friends who would fight for you." His gaze gentled. "Whatever blood runs through your veins do not erase the woman you become."
I swallowed hard.
"Regardless of who your brith family may have been," he said, "the people who raised you are still your family. And from what I've seen, they did a remarkable job."
For the first time all day, I felt something in my chest loosen lightly.
"Thank you, Doctor," I said softly.
He rose from his seat and gave my uninjured shoulder a light pat. "You're welcome, Elena. Now go get some rest. It had been a long day."
Then he disappeared out the door, leaving the break room quiet once more save for the distant sounds of monitors beeping and hurried footsteps echoing somewhere down the corridor.
I let out a slow breath.
The apple had long since lost its taste, but I took another bite anyway, staring blankly at the vending machine across from me before my gaze drifted toward my phone resting on the table right in front of me.
By the time I made it back to the flat last night, they were both gone.
The front door had been shut, though unlocked, and everything was quiet. The broken table from the fight had disappeared entirely, everything set neatly back into place as though nothing had happened there at all.
I remembered standing there frozen in the middle of the living room, still wearing my coat, staring at the cleaned floor in disbelief before finally noticing the folded note left on the kitchen counter.
The handwriting had looked old. Sharp and careful, the ink strokes too elegant to resemble modern cursive. I hadn't understood a word of it at first, but after a frantic search online comparing old English and Latin script, realization slowly dawned on me.
Marcus had cleaned everything before leaving, saying he thought I might wish to spend the night alone after everything that had happened. That he'd come back the next evening. And judging by the color of the sky right by the window behind me, I'd say that he would've been waiting in my flat for at least an hour by now.
So I picked up my phone, slipped it into the small pocket of my scrubs and headed toward the changing room, to finally sign out of my shift and go home.
The walk back was surprisingly peaceful.
I skipped the bus again, choosing instead to let the cold evening air loosen the tightness that had settled inside my chest all day. After more than ten hours trapped beneath fluorescent lights, surrounded by blood, antiseptic and the sharp metallic scent of operating theaters, the quiet streets can almost feel unreal.
It had been a difficult shift.
And though work had managed to distract me from my personal disaster for a little while, exhaustion only made everything return sharper afterward.
By the time I reached my flat, my feet ached so badly I barely registered unlocking the door.
"Elena."
I startled slightly at the sound of Marcus's voice the moment I stepped inside.
He rose immediately from the sofa.
"How long have you been waiting?" I asked tiredly, tossing my keys onto the small table beside the door.
Instead of answering, he stepped forward and gently helped slide my coat from my shoulders.
"You don't have to do that," I murmured automatically.
Marcus ignored me entirely as he carefully hung the dark brown coat beside his own near the entrance.
"It is a gentlemanly thing to do," he replied simply before walking toward the kitchen. "And you look moments away from collapsing."
He was dressed too smart in his blue button-up for a simple visit. Not that I'd be complaining. He looked handsome. Modern clothes suit him.
I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my mouth.
Pippa still hadn't returned from her mother's place, deciding to stay a few extra days since she wasn't due back at work until Tuesday. Lucky her.
Meanwhile, hospitals apparently didn't acknowledge weekends.
"I bought food," Marcus said, opening one of the paper bags waiting on the counter. "I assumed you had not eaten properly."
I blinked at him in surprise.
"You know how to get takeaway now?"
A month ago, crowds alone had nearly overwhelmed him. Now he was casually bringing home dinner like he had lived in modern England his entire life.
Marcus glanced at me briefly.
"I have money now," he said. "Samuel lent me some until I could begin earning my keep."
There was something about the way he said it, with all that seriousness and determination to contribute, it made warmth bloom unexpectedly in my chest. I couldn't believe he was truly staying.
For me.
For us.
"What exactly are you planning to do?" I asked, toeing off my shoes near the door.
Marcus straightened slightly.
"Your world appears deeply obsessed with war," he said dryly. "I thought perhaps security work may suit me."
"Honestly, Marcus," I murmured, stepping closer to him, "that might actually suit you disturbingly well."
Marcus's gaze lifted to mine instantly.
Even now, after everything, there was still something unbearably intense about the way he looked at me. As if his attention alone could pin me in place.
The kitchen suddenly felt quieter. Smaller, even.
Warmer.
I stopped right in front of him, close enough to catch the faint scent of cold air and spice lingering on his shirt. His expression softened slightly as his hand settled carefully against my waist, almost hesitant. Like he was waiting for permission.
It had been a long day, and I had nothing else to say.
Nothing else to give.
So instead of answering him, I simply rose onto my toes and kissed him.
Softly.
Wordlessly.