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“I assure you, I’m quite troublesome.” He finished preparing a dose and extended it toward her. “For the boy on your hip. The concentration is adjusted for his size.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the medicine, and he studied the contrast—his hands large and calloused, hers slender and reddened from work. His gaze traveled to her throat where her collar had slipped, revealing a dark bruise.

Something primal and protective surged in his chest. The memory of the attacker’s face under his fist flashed through his mind, along with a savage wish that he’d done more damage.He tamped it down, focusing instead on the task before him.

“If you tell me what else needs doing, I can help while you rest,” he said, keeping his tone clinical rather than commanding.

Abigail’s chin tilted upward—a small but unmistakable gesture of defiance. “I don’t need to rest.”

“Of course not. Your throat is raw, you’re favoring your right ankle, and you’ve clearly been on your feet since dawn, but you’re the picture of vigor.”

A child coughed wetly from the corner, drawing Abigail’s attention away from what might have become a heated exchange. She moved to the little girl, administering medicine with gentle words of encouragement that Graham couldn’t quite hear.

For the next hour, they fell into an unexpectedly efficient partnership. Graham mixed medicines and checked temperatures while Abigail comforted the children with a skill he couldn’t help but admire. She knew each by name, remembered which ones disliked being touched and which needed extra reassurance.

Working beside her felt strangely natural, as if they’d been doing this for years rather than hours. When he was in the army hospitals alongside other doctors and nurses, they developed an unspoken communication based on anticipation of what was needed next. That same instinct served him now. He watched her movements, predicting where she would go next, what she might need.

“You have a gift with them,” he observed as they folded clean linens together in a moment of quiet. “They trust you.”

She shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. “They’ve had few reasons to trust adults. It’s a privilege when they do.”

Abigail folded with practiced ease, her motions precise and economical. Graham mirrored her across the table, smoothing a length of linen with deliberate focus. He let the conversation lull, happy that she was at least sitting.

The door flew open with a crash that reverberated through the walls. Two boys—healthy ones from the upper dormitory—barreled into the room, all flying limbs and hoarse laughter.

“Mind your feet!” Mrs. Welling bellowed from the hallway, just as one of the boys careened straight into Graham.

The contact was brief but jarring. The child bounced off his side like a ricocheting cannonball and vanished back out the door with his companion, trailing apologies and a half-hearted “Sorry, sir!” behind them.

But Graham pitched forward and the edge of the table bit into his thighs. The floor tilted beneath his feet. In a blink, he was in the frigate’s hold, and his hands were covered in blood.

A man lay sprawled across the planks, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. Gut shot. Hands scrabbling for something—anything—to hold. Graham’s knees buckled, and he pitched forward, bracing himself just inches from the man’s open wounds. The stench of iron and bile filled his nose. Shouting surrounded him, orders barked over crashing waves, the wet thud of boots on timber.

Get up. You have to get up. He’s still alive. If you can stop the bleeding—if you can?—

“Graham.”

The voice was quiet. Not barked or panicked, but steady. Real.

He blinked. The blood was gone. The wounds. The ship.

He was leaning on the worktable, knuckles blanched, fists clenched in a twisted sheet. The room had stilled again—no laughter, no footsteps. Only the tick of the old clock on the far wall and the distant sound of children.

Abigail stood opposite him, a pillowcase folded neatly in her hands. She didn’t speak again. Didn’t step closer. Her expression was unreadable—calm, yes, but not indifferent.

She saw him.

Graham exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers to uncurl. The sheet was crumpled where he’d clutched it, the linen damp with sweat.

He gave a single nod, sharp and clipped. “Apologies.”

Abigail handed him a fresh square of linen. “You missed a corner.”

He took it with quiet gratitude. No questions. No pity.

“Water needs changing in the dormitory,” Mrs. Welling announced, bustling in with empty pitchers. “Alice is occupied with the new arrival.”

Abigail reached for the largest bucket, but Graham was already there, his hand closing over the handle.