Page 22 of Collide

He shakes his head, running a hand through his floppy hair. He looks almost embarrassed, opening his mouth to speak, but before he can say a word, a short, plump nurse with half-moon glasses bustles into the room, as if on cue.

“Hello, miss,” she interjects briskly, her voice bright and practical. She swiftly grabs the buzzer from above my head, switching it off. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had a small accident. How are you feeling?”

“Fine…just groggy and sore,” I manage, feeling like my body still hasn’t fully caught up with my brain. “How long was I out?”

She tilts her head, giving me an odd look over the top of her glasses. “Groggy and sore? Miss, are you British?”

“No, Australian,” I reply, rolling my eyes. At the mention of Australia, the guy beside me visibly perks up, his gaze sharpening, intent but unreadable. Something about the intensity in his eyes makes my chest tighten, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

The nurse nods thoughtfully, jotting something down on her chart. “Full name, please?”

“Um, Eleanor Josephine Montgomery.”

“Date of birth?”

I relay my birthday to her September 3rd, followed by the year I was born. I glance over at him and he frowns. I wonder what he’s thinking.

“Parents?” says the nurse clearing her throat.

“Vida and Jack Harding—no, sorry,” I say quickly, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I shake my head gently, trying to clear the lingering haze. “I mean Vida Harding and Mortimer Montgomery.”

My eyes dart sideways toward the guy again, now seated on the couch under the window, catching him staring openly now. His stormy eyes widen briefly before he glances down at his hands, seemingly fascinated by his fingers.

“Alex here says he accidentally bumped into you,” the nurse explains lightly, waving her pen in his direction. “You fell, hit your head, and he brought you in.”

“Oh, shit.” I gasp, my hand instinctively flying to the tender spot at the back of my skull. The dull ache blooms anew beneath my fingertips.

“You split your head open and needed stitches. You also have a minor gash on your elbow,” the nurse says matter-of-factly, peering at me over her half-moon glasses before placing my chart at the foot of the bed.

My eyes widen as I glance toward Alex. He’s still sitting quietly nearby, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he wishes the hospital floor might swallow him whole.

“Stitches?” I gasp, inspecting my arms more carefully. My left elbow is neatly bandaged. Despite the circumstances, I feel better than I probably should, and grateful that it isn’t worse.

“The initial scans showed no brain bleeds, but because you passed out, you likely have a concussion and some swelling,” the nurse continues gently. “We’ll keep you overnight for observation and send you for another scan in the morning. Depending on those results, you’ll likely be discharged tomorrow.” She offers a quick, reassuring nod, then turns on her heel and strides briskly from the room.

I exhale heavily, frustration welling in my chest.

Seriously? Not even two weeks in New York and I’ve already landed myself in the hospital.

My eyes scan the unfamiliar room, landing on a neatly folded pile of my clothes and my purse, resting on a small table in the corner. I shift, swinging my legs toward the side of the bed, only to have Alex immediately appear by my side.

“Hey, you should stay in bed,” he insists, his voice firm but gentle, one large hand resting lightly on my shoulder, steadying me. His touch sends an unexpected ripple of warmth down my spine.

“I’m sure I can manage,” I say, irritation slipping into my voice, though I’m honestly too tired to argue. With a resigned sigh, I adjust myself, settling back into the bed.

“Alex, right?” I glance at him. “Could you grab my bag, please?” I gesture toward my purse, still resting on the chair.

Without a word, Alex crosses the room, gently lifting the purse, and hands it to me with both hands.

“Thanks,” I murmur, appreciating his care, even if embarrassment still lingers.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Alex begins quietly, sincerity etched plainly on his face. “You’re in here because of me. Back at the store, you bumped into me, fell, and hit your head.” Guilt shadows his expression, making him look momentarily vulnerable.

My cheeks go hot.

Of course, I think, cringing inwardly. Only I could knock myself out by bumping into someone.

“I guess it doesn’t help that you’re built like a wall,” I joke weakly, trying to break the tension. “Not easy dealing with us hobbit folk.”