E L A R A

Autonomy isn’t a gift. It’s a list written in ink, ruthless and uncompromising.

The clinic is hushed at dusk, orchids bowing in shadows, the bioluminescent glow from Bluefire Lagoon flickering faintly through the frosted glass. Guests are laughing over cocktails somewhere down the boardwalk, but here, my pen scratches like a scalpel.

AEDs × 6.
Epinephrine pens at every station.
Antivenom for jellyfish and stonefish.
Heat tents staged for Lantern Tide.
Double night staff. Training. Drills.

Every line is survival. Every checkmark a memory carved into me by New York’s failures — the locked crash cart, the girl whose heart stopped before the defibrillator arrived, the man who died because ambition mattered more than compassion. Those ghosts sit beside me as I write, reminding me what negligence costs.

This isn’t luxury medicine. This is war prep.

And if Adrian Valcrosse hates it? Good. He should. Because the audit he blasted across the island this morning proves he’s already bent. He may tell himself it was strategy, a power move, but I know better. This is my list. My terms.

I stack the forms, clip them hard, and sling my bag over my shoulder. The lagoon air hits as I step outside — brine and diesel, dusk lanterns trembling gold on the tide. Pretty, but fragile. Like every illusion this island sells.

Tonight, I’m done with illusions. This list is non-negotiable. Adrian can sign every order, or watch me burn his serenity façade to the ground.

He’s already there when I reach the supply docks.

Adrian Valcrosse, heir of Seraphine, sleeves rolled, jacket gone, clipboard in hand. He looks carved from dusk itself, the lantern light catching on his forearms, on the sharp edge of his jaw. He doesn’t look like a man who caved to my demands this morning. He looks like a man waiting for a fight.

My steps slow, but I don’t stop. The tide laps against the pier, diesel biting the air, and I keep my spine straight. He doesn’t speak first. He just watches me approach, eyes unreadable, like he’s already measuring whether I’ll pass or fail some unspoken test.

“Show me,” he says finally. No preamble. No smirk. Just two clipped words, like an incision.

So I do.

I take him through the storage units, one by one, my list clutched like a weapon. “AEDs here, here, and here,” I point out, sharp and precise. He nods, signs the requisition without hesitation. We move on.

“Antivenom staged at all three lagoon kiosks. Refrigeration checked daily.”
Sign. Initial. His handwriting is quick, decisive.

“Epinephrine pens at every dining hall. At least two per station.”
Sign. No argument.

We fall into rhythm. I point, he signs. My words slice, his pen follows. It shouldn’t feel like chemistry, but it does. A cadence. A syncopation. Like surgery with two skilled hands, or like a dance neither of us rehearsed but both of us know instinctively.

And the heat isn’t sexual — not yet. It’s professional. Which somehow makes it worse. Because professional heat burns slower, steadier. It’s respect disguised as efficiency, and I don’t trust it.

I glance at him when he isn’t looking. He’s focused, every movement stripped of arrogance, every response clean and fast. He doesn’t posture for the staff who linger nearby. He doesn’t smirk at me, doesn’t dismiss, doesn’t argue. He just… works.

And damn him, he looks good at it.

I hate that thought. Hate how easily my body betrays me with a spark low in my stomach, the kind that has nothing to do with medicine. This man is supposed to be my adversary. The one who spins safety into optics, who treats compassion like weakness. Not this version of him — sleeves rolled, eyes sharp, listening.

“Next,” I say, sharper than necessary, thrusting the clipboard toward him.

He takes it, our fingers brushing for half a second longer than needed. His gaze flicks to mine, unreadable again, but his pen moves without pause.

We walk through the last dock in silence, our shadows cast long across the floorboards by the lantern glow. My pulse is steady from the checklist, but unsteady from the man beside me.

Professional. It’s just professional. I tell myself that like a mantra. But even I don’t believe it.

The last storage room is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass without brushing. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with sterile boxes and labeled bins. I point to the top shelf, where a row of empty cabinets waits for the AED shipment.

“We’ll stage them here,” I say, tilting the clipboard up so he can see my notes.

Adrian steps in behind me, close enough that his body heat cuts through the cool draft sneaking under the dock door. He reaches past me, his hand brushing mine as he pulls the cabinet open. The touch is nothing — a graze of knuckles, skin on skin for less than a heartbeat. But it jolts through me like a live wire.

My breath hitches before I can stop it.

His pause is microscopic, but I feel it. His gaze flicks down, catches the way my fingers tighten on the clipboard, then drifts up toward my mouth before he schools it away. The control in that restraint makes my pulse stutter harder than the touch did.

I take a deliberate step back, spine rigid. “It’ll do,” I say, voice steady only because I force it.

“Good.” His answer is clipped, neutral, but the timbre is rougher than before.

The silence between us thickens, charged, as if the narrow room itself is holding its breath. My shoulder brushes his when I move past him toward the next shelf. He doesn’t step aside immediately, forcing me to skim closer than I want, closer than is safe.

By the time we reach the doorway, my pulse is unsteady, my professional mask stretched thin. This is nothing. A brush. A breath. Static in a confined space. And yet my body won’t forget it.

Not him. Not like this.

By the time we finish, the clipboard is a battlefield of signatures and checkmarks. My handwriting marches down the page in clipped commands; his initials anchor each one like seals of approval. Somewhere between the first dock and the last, the rhythm stopped feeling like combat and started feeling like… choreography.

I hate the realization.

We move to opposite sides of the counter, sorting requisition slips into neat piles for procurement. I reach for the top sheet at the same time he does. Our hands don’t touch this time — but our motions line up perfectly, mirrored without thought. He pauses, eyebrows ticking in faint surprise, before sliding the paper toward me.

“Supplies,” he says.

“Training schedule,” I counter.

“Heat protocols.”

“AED shipment.”

It’s too smooth, too seamless, as if we’ve done this a hundred times instead of once. Staff hover at the doorway, watching us with cautious eyes, and I see the flicker of something in their faces. Relief. Trust. Like they’re watching a pair who can actually run this place together.

The thought hits me like salt in a wound. I don’t want to be seen as his other half. I don’t want to move in sync with a man who represents everything I came here to escape.

And yet when we both lay the last slip on the stack at the same time, our eyes lift and lock for a breath too long. It feels… dangerous.

I tear my gaze away, throat tight. “That’s it,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

“That’s it,” he echoes, but his voice is low, steady, unreadable.

I slide the finished stack into a folder, eager to put distance between myself and the strange, seamless rhythm we just fell into. Before I can shove the folder into my bag, my phone buzzes across the counter.

Unknown number. Donor line.

I answer, pressing the phone to my ear. “Dr. Quinn.”

The voice that hits me is sharp, male, and already furious.
“Doctor, what the hell is this invoice spike? Six AEDs? Heat tents? Antivenom? Do you have any idea what this costs the foundation? You’re gutting our accounts for equipment that isn’t necessary.”

My stomach tightens, cold. Of course the pushback would come. Money before lives — the oldest equation in medicine.

Across from me, Adrian straightens, his attention snapping to my face. He can’t hear the words, but he sees enough. His gaze sharpens like a scalpel.

“I won’t sign off on this without answers,” the donor snaps. “Explain yourself, or I’ll take it to the board.”

The line hisses with static, but the threat is clear.

I lower the phone, pulse pounding, and meet Adrian’s eyes across the counter.

“We’ve got a problem.”