Page 13 of Never Quite Gone

Instead of another bloody trauma, I found Rothschild waiting by the entrance, looking like a GQ cover shot dropped into a war zone. His perfect suit somehow repelled the ER chaos around him. Just seeing him sent another jolt through my system like a defibrillator set too high.

“Dr. Monroe.” His smile bypassed all myprofessional defenses like they were made of tissue paper. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought we might nail down that tour schedule.”

Bullshit excuse - nobody just “happens by” Presbyterian's ER unless they're bleeding or dying. Every instinct honed through years of keeping people at arm's length screamed to keep this brief and boring.

But that pull was back. That fucking recognition that made everything else feel like a dream I was about to wake up from.

“Mr. Rothschild.” My voice stayed steady through sheer willpower. “This isn't really the time for?—“

“Alex,” he cut in, soft but firm. “Please.”

A dimly lit tent flashed through my mind, his voice saying my name while I stitched his wounds.

“The ER isn't exactly the place for this,” I managed, fighting against memories that couldn't possibly be mine but felt realer than yesterday.

“Then maybe somewhere more appropriate?” His suggestion sounded professional enough, but the undertone made my pulse race like a rookie in their first trauma.

Three seconds to remember Michael's laugh over shitty hospital coffee. Three seconds to feel my wedding ring's weight. Three seconds to list every logical reason to tell him to fuck off.

“Ten minutes,” I heard myself say instead, like an idiot. “Got rounds after.”

His smile deepened like he'd known I'd cave. Like he'd always known me better than I knew myself.

“Perfect.” He gestured for me to lead. “We can discuss the site inspection timeline.”

The nurses' heads swiveled as we passed, hungry for fresh gossip. Even in the controlled chaos of the ER, Alex commanded attention without trying. His movements carried a grace that should've looked out of place between crash carts and IV poles, but somehow felt right.

“Patient flow during construction is our big concern,” Isaid, clinging to safe topics like a lifeline. “Especially during peak trauma hours.”

“Of course.” His understanding felt deeper than just professional courtesy. “We'll adjust the schedule to minimize impact.”

Our shoulders brushed rounding a corner, shooting electricity through my system. My body reacted to him in ways my brain refused to process.

“Your emergency protocols are impressive,” he continued smooth as silk, ignoring my stumble. “I've studied similar systems nationwide, but yours stands out.”

More stares followed us down the admin wing. Chen nearly ate shit dropping her charts. Rodriguez whispered to her work wife like teenagers at lunch. Couldn't blame them - Alex moved through our sterile halls like a Renaissance painting come to life, his bespoke suit and commanding presence making everything else look cheap and temporary.

My office door offered a moment's sanctuary. Alex studied the space like he was memorizing every detail: Michael's photo on my desk, the framed map of Oakwood Grove where we'd planned our dream house, medical texts arranged by specialty because I'm that kind of anal.

“You've built something remarkable here,” he said, words heavy with meaning I didn't want to decode.

Our eyes met in the window's reflection, and reality did that sideways slide again. Late afternoon sun painted everything amber, turning my sterile office into something almost holy. More memories hit like punches:

Candlelight dancing on marble while we studied ancient texts. His laugh echoing through high-ceilinged studios as I fucked up another color mix. Jazz wrapping around us like smoke, his eyes locked on mine from across the room.

“Mr. Rothschild,” I managed, voice shaky as a first-year resident.

“Alex,” he insisted, gentle but firm. “Please.”

The way he said it - like a prayer, like he'dbeen saying it for centuries - made my chest ache with recognition I couldn't explain. His name hung between us like a loaded gun.

“The construction timeline,” I started, desperate for solid ground. But Alex had moved closer, his presence making it hard to think about anything except how familiar he felt.

“Can wait,” he murmured. “Some things matter more than timelines.”

His voice saying those exact words in a torch-lit room, centuries ago.

“I don't—“ I choked on whatever bullshit denial I was about to try.

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