E L L A R A

The quiet after a crisis is always the worst.
Not because it’s silent, but because it pretends to be.

The clinic hums low around me with monitors blinking steady, the whirr of the sterilizer running its final cycle. I sit at the edge of the supply room counter, back aching, fingers sore, trying to finish the last set of vitals. Every number on the chart is stable. Every patient is safe.

So why do I feel like I’m unraveling?

My pen slips as I check a pulse record, smearing ink across the margin. I blink hard, try again, and the line still refuses to straighten. I’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline since the lagoon incident, maybe longer. The last time I ate something hot was… yesterday? No, the night before. A protein bar in the hallway. A sip of tea that went cold before I remembered it.

Asha offered to finish rounds, but I waved her off. Said I was fine.
I’m always fine.

The truth is, I’m afraid to stop. If I stop, the weight catches up. The image of that boy slipping into the water. The moment his pulse fluttered. The sound of his mother’s breath breaking apart in real time.

I press my fingers to my temple. The room tilts just slightly, like a boat swaying in a shallow tide.

I need to sleep.

Instead, I reach for the stack of unopened supply invoices. More oxygen tanks. More thermal blankets. If I leave these for the morning, they’ll get delayed. If I do them now, the island stays ready.

The paper blurs. My hand slips.

I barely notice the glass vial rolling off the tray until it shatters against the tile. The sound snaps too loud, too sharp. My knees buckle. My vision narrows.

I reach for the counter and miss. The world tilts hard.

And then I’m falling.

The floor rushes toward me, blurred and soundless.

But I didn’t hit it.

Arms catch me. Hard arms. Familiar.

My cheek lands against warm cotton, the thud of a heartbeat filling my ear. A hand braces the back of my head, the other anchors me by the waist. I don’t have the strength to lift my face, but I feel him. His voice is a low curse against my hair.

“Elara.. damn it..! Elara, look at me.!”

I try. My lashes flutter, vision tunneling, but the world stays hazy. All I can manage is a slurred whisper. “Didn’t order the blankets.”

His breath shudders against my skin. “You’re burning out. You’re done.”

“No,” I murmur, trying to push off his chest. My arms won’t listen. “Still more to..”

“You’re done.” His voice cuts like a blade this time. Sharp, but low. Gentle in the way storms are, just before they break. “You’re not dying on me in this goddamn clinic.”

He lifts me.

It’s not a fireman carry or some dramatic sweep. He cradles me, like something breakable, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. My arm curls instinctively around his neck, more reflex than choice. His scent is heat and aftershave, and underneath it, saltwater and the faint trace of something clean. Soap. Safety.

I want to fight it. I should.

But I melt.

Just for a second.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my temple. “Come on, doc. Don’t tap out now.”

He sets me gently on the cot in the back room, kneeling beside me, his hand stroking hair from my damp forehead. His thumb brushes behind my ear. “Eyes open, Elara. You hear me?”

“Too much,” I whisper.

His hand finds mine. Squeezes. “I know.”

Then everything fades to black, but I don’t fall this time.

He’s holding me too tightly to let me.

The world returns in fragments.

Cool linen against my cheek. The distant hum of monitors. A pulse not mine beneath my palm. Steady. Fierce.

Then a voice, close.

“You’re awake.”

Adrian. Sitting beside the cot, sleeves rolled, eyes shadowed.

I blink up at him, disoriented. “What happened?”

“You passed out.” His jaw works. “Clinic floor. Supply room. I caught you.”

Humiliation creeps in, hot and thick. “Great. Add dramatic collapse to my résumé.”

His brows snap together. “You think this is funny?”

I try to sit. His hand presses gently to my shoulder. Not controlling, just there.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His voice is low, rough. “You’re running on fumes. No food, no rest, and enough weight on your shoulders to sink the island.”

I look away. “There was still work.”

“There’s always work,” he snaps, then exhales hard. “But you don’t get to kill yourself for it.”

“I’m not..”

“You are.” His hand slides from my shoulder to my wrist, fingers curling lightly around mine. “And I get it. You don’t trust anyone else to carry the load. You think if you rest, people die.”

“They do,” I whisper. My throat tightens. “They have.”

His thumb moves over my knuckles. “Not this time.”

Silence stretches between us. The only sound is the steady beeping of the vitals monitor in the next room.

Then, softer, he says, “You’re safe, Elara. With me.”

The words break something I didn’t know was still holding.

Not because I believe him. But because part of me wants to.

Desperately.

I look at him, really look. His shirt’s wrinkled, collar open. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s been up as long as I have.

“You should rest too,” I murmured.

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite dare. “Not until you stop scaring the hell out of me.”

Adrian’s hand is still over mine, thumb grazing the soft skin between my knuckles like he’s memorizing it. There’s no demand in his touch. No agenda.

Just… presence.

And somehow, that undoes me more than anything else could.

“I saw the tablet,” I say quietly. “The press cut. The one they sent you.”

He stills.

“I wasn’t in it.” My voice cracks despite me. “Not even my hand.”

“Elara..”

“They erased me.” I meet his eyes, willing him not to lie. “Like I never stood beside you. Like I didn’t steady your voice or hold the mic. Like I was just another faceless nurse passing you a towel.”

He exhales through his nose, pain flickering behind his composure. “It wasn’t my call.”

“I know.”

I look down at our hands. His is so much larger, warmer. He could let go right now and I’d float off, vanish exactly the way Marina wants me to.

“If I’m only allowed to matter when there’s blood in the water,” I whisper, “then I don’t come back from this.”

His grip tightens. “Then I won’t let them erase you.”

I blink, startled.

He leans in, voice low and certain. “You’re not a side note in my narrative, Elara. You never were.”

I search his face for performative calm, for optics but there’s none. Just a man close enough to kiss, speaking quietly to a woman who scares the hell out of him for all the right reasons.

My lips part. His eyes drop for just a second.

“You saw it too, didn’t you,” I ask, breath uneven. “What we looked like.”

“More than a team,” he says softly. “More than they’ll understand.”

His fingers lace between mine, warm and certain. Not possessive. Just real. But his thumb drifts lower now, over the sensitive skin at my wrist. A slow, dangerous stroke.

I shiver.

It’s the only thing keeping me tethered.

Adrian doesn’t leave.

Even after I close my eyes again. Even after my breath steadies.

He stays beside the cot, one knee drawn up, my hand cradled between both of his like he’s anchoring me to the moment. The overhead lights are dimmed now. Only the soft pulse of monitors and the faint rustle of waves fill the silence.

For the first time since the storm, I let go.

Of the worry. Of the list. Of the fight.

His fingers trace over mine, slow and steady, like a promise unspoken.

I think I could fall asleep to this. I think, just for tonight I could let someone else keep watch.

The clinic door creaks.

I tense, and Adrian’s grip instantly firms around mine.

Then a voice: low, urgent. “Adrian. You need to see this.”

It’s Ethan.

Adrian rises, not letting go until the last possible second. “What is it?”

Ethan crosses the room fast, phone already in hand. His expression is tight, unreadable.

He hands Adrian the screen.

Adrian swears under his breath.

I push myself up slowly, still shaky, but alert now. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer.

So I stand. Cross the few steps to his side. Look down at the phone.

And feel the air leave my lungs.

The screen shows a headline.

“BREAKING: Secret Lovers in the Wreckers’ Cave?”
A blurred photo. Grainy. But unmistakable.

Me.
Straddling Adrian.
Mouths fused.
Hands tangled in wet hair.
The cave’s firelight behind us, golden and damning.

Anonymous source. No names.
But the comments already know.

Doctor. CEO. Storm. Scandal.

My heart thundered in my chest.

“Oh God,” I whisper. “They saw.”