A D R I A N

Later comes faster than I expected, shouted through a radio instead of whispering against her mouth.
“Medical emergency, boardwalk terrace, possible anaphylaxis!”

For a heartbeat I think I misheard, because the morning was calm a minute ago, coffee steam, gulls, soft breeze and now everything fractures. I’m halfway across the Skybridge when instinct burns through hesitation.

“Clear the path,” I snapped into the comm. “Security on scene in thirty seconds. Medical inbound.”

Ethan’s footsteps pound behind me. Tourists flatten themselves against glass rails as we run. One drops a flute of champagne; the glass explodes across the planks.

The smell hits before the sight, shrimp skewers, butter, salt, panic. A man sprawls by a bar table, face swelling, lips blue. His wife’s shrieking his name, shaking him like maybe love can reverse biology.

I’m already kneeling. “He’s not breathing.”

“Where’s the EpiPen?” I bark.

Someone dives behind the counter. “Here!”

The injector’s orange cap flashes. I tear it off, jab it through linen, count aloud, one, two, three. The click echoes like a gunshot. He jerks but doesn’t inhale.

“Where the hell is Dr. Quinn?”

“Three minutes out,” Ethan shouts.

Three minutes feels like a year. The man’s pulse flutters weakly under my fingers. His wife’s crying, saying please over and over until it breaks in half.

“Stay with me,” I tell him, pressing down on his thigh to force circulation, as if muscle pressure can keep him tethered. “Stay.”

Phones rise around us. I look up sharply. “If you’re not helping, back up! Now!”

A dozen people stumble backward. Fear still obeys authority.

Not today. Not on my island.

When Elara bursts through the crowd it’s like the air finally remembers how to move. Her scrubs are half-zipped, hair half-tamed, eyes wide with fury and focus.

“Move,” she says, and the world obeys.

“One dose given. Weak response. Airway is closing.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

“You did good,” she says, already tilting the man’s head, fingers probing his neck. “Pulse faint… we’re going again.”

She readies a second pen, flicks off the cap with her teeth, presses the needle. I hold his legs. He gasps, a broken, wet sound then drags a full breath. The relief is violent.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Again. In through your nose, out your mouth. That’s it.”

His wife sobs with the rhythm. “Breathe, honey, breathe.”

The portable oxygen finally arrives, silver tank rattling. She snaps the valve, checks flow, slides the mask over his face. Fog forms, thin at first, then steady.

He’s alive.

For a second I can’t move. The roar in my chest is louder than the crowd.

Elara glances at me. Sweat streaks her temple, lashes clumped from sea spray. She looks wrecked, beautiful, furious and alive.

No one speaks. The only sound is oxygen hissing and the faint click-click of cameras trying to own the moment.

“Stabilize and transfer,” she says finally. “He’s going to make it.”

I let out the breath I’ve been strangling.

“Pulse steady,” she confirms, fingers pressed to his wrist. “Pressure climbing. We’re clear.”

The team exhales in unison. I’m still on my knees, trousers soaked with spilled champagne, hands shaking hard enough that I hide them on my thighs.

“You followed the protocol,” she says.

“Yours.”

Almost a smile. “Good. Shrimp allergy. The menu tag missed it.”

“I’ll handle Marina.”

She nods, refocuses on the patient, talking the wife through each step, keeping his head tilted, counting his breaths, and staying calm. The woman nods, clinging to the sound of Elara’s voice like it’s rope.

Ethan crouches beside me. “Ambulance docked. Ten minutes.”

“Go,” I say.

Elara pushes to her feet, using my shoulder for balance. Her fingers leave warmth through my sleeve. I stand too fast, dizzy with adrenaline.

The stretcher rolls away, wheels rattling. The crowd parts, then, applause. First scattered, then swelling.

Elara flinches. “Why are they cheering?”

“Because they didn’t have to do anything.”

Her mouth twists. “We’ll audit every menu.”

“Already on it.”

She actually laughs, soft, cracked, real. “You sound like me.”

“God forbid.” It draws a tiny smile from her, sunlight breaking through the wreckage.

Then Marina’s voice cuts the air like glass. “Adrian! The press is here..”

“Not now.”

“This is gold!” she insists. “A Valcrosse saves..”

“Marina. Not. Now.” The words come out lower than a threat. She blinks and retreats.

Elara exhales shakily. “Thank you.”

“You’d have said worse.”

“True.” A ghost of humor, gone quick. “Still… you didn’t have to stay that calm.”

“You told me panic spreads faster than infection.”

Her eyes soften. “You listened.”

The sun’s sliding toward the horizon, painting the deck gold and blood-red. Salt and adrenaline hang thick. Staff clear tables; security ropes off the terrace.

Elara kneels again, repacking her kit, gauze, injectors, masks, each motion precise and sacred. It’s how she steadies herself. I just watch, useless and wired.

“You okay?” she asks without looking up.

“I don’t know. That felt… real.”

“That’s called growth,” she says gently. “You did good, Adrian.” The way she says my name hits harder than the applause. Wind catches the edge of a napkin and sends it spiraling out to sea. Her hair lifts with it. There’s a faint smudge of adrenaline on her wrist; I wipe it off before I think. My thumb lingers.

She doesn’t move. Just breathe. “You should wash up.”

“So should you.” Neither of us does. Ethan returns, phone in hand. “Heads up.. Marina’s posting clips. One already hit the mainland feed.”

Elara groans. “Of course.”

“What’s the caption?” I ask.

He reads, “‘Valcrosse Heir and Resort Doctor Save Tourist’s Life.’ Tags: #SeraphineSaves, #DoctorQuinn, #AdrianValcrosse.”

She blinks, half-laughing. “That’s… not terrible?”

“Miracle,” I mutter. “For once, they like us.”

Ethan smirks. “Hero couple. Enjoy it.”

“Hero what?” she says, cheeks flushing, before I can answer, Marina reappears, hair flawless, perfume cutting through antiseptic, phone raised like a trophy.

“You need to see this,” she says, breathless.

On the screen: a still frame frozen mid-rescue, my hands braced on the man’s leg, Elara bent over him, sunlight striking her eyes like fire.

The headline screams beneath it:
ADRIAN VALCROSSE’S HANDS SAVE A LIFE—AND HIS HEART BELONGS TO SERAPHINE’S DOCTOR.

Elara’s breath catches. The crowd around us is murmuring again, pointing, filming the two of us instead of the departing ambulance.

Noise dulls into ocean static. I can hear her heartbeat over everything, the small hitch as she realizes what the headline means.

“They think..” she starts.

“I know.” My throat’s raw. “Let them.”

Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide, searching, because for once the story isn’t a lie. Somewhere behind us, Ethan’s radio crackles: logistics, sirens, life continuing. None of it reaches me.

I’m still watching her, the doctor who argued with me into caring, who made safety feel like faith instead of punishment. The woman whose hands just pulled a man back from death while mine only steadied the edges.

The wind rises hard enough to rattle the glass rail. The sea throws spray over our shoes, cold and real. She shivers, just once. I reach for her without thinking, fingers grazing her arm.

“Adrian,” she whispers, warning and wanting to get tangled together.

Cameras flash. The island holds its breath.

Later, I think, tasting salt and adrenaline. Later just began.