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ALESSIA

T he hospital is alive around me, a constant hum of activity, voices, and footsteps echoing down the sterile hallways. I weave through the corridors, the bright overhead lights casting a harsh glare on the tiled floors. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the nurses’ station. It’s one of those morning that makes me feel like I’ve been awake for days, and maybe I have. I don’t know anymore, time blurs in this place.

My fingers curl around the edge of a chart, my thumb brushing over the paper as I flip through the pages. The black ink sprawls in neat, precise handwriting—vitals, notes, observations. I scan each line, letting the details soak into my mind, filing them away like pieces of a puzzle.

“Dr. Visconti?” a voice calls from behind, and I turn to see one of the nurses approaching, her face kind, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. She hands me a clipboard. “Room 312 is asking for you. The patient’s been a bit restless this morning.”

I nod, tucking the chart under my arm. “Thank you, Sheila. I’ll check in on them now.”

I make my way toward Room 312, the sounds of the hospital fading into a distant hum. The weight of everything presses on my shoulders—my responsibilities here, the unrelenting pace of residency, the way my personal life seems to have bled into the professional space. I think of Romiro, of his hands on my skin in the pouring rain just days ago, his mouth hot against mine, the rain falling as we kissed as if it were trying to wash away all of our doubts and fears. But the memory is fleeting, slipping away as quickly as it came, replaced by the reality of where I am now.

I reach the door to Room 312 and knock softly before pushing it open. Inside, the patient, an older man with graying hair and tired eyes, looks up from his bed. His name is Mr. Wallace; he’s been here for days now, recovering from a minor surgery that took a little longer to heal than expected.

“Good morning, Mr. Wallace,” I say, offering him a warm smile as I step closer to his bed. “How are we feeling today?”

He grunts, shifting slightly, his expression grumpy but not unfriendly. “I’d feel a lot better if I could get out of here, Doc,” he mutters, his voice gravelly from too many years of smoking, the edges softened by the hint of a smile he tries to hide.

I chuckle softly. “I hear you. Let’s take a look, see how everything is healing up. We might just make that happen.”

I set the chart down on the small table beside his bed, pulling on a pair of gloves as I approach. His arm is in a sling, a thick bandage wrapped around his shoulder, and I carefully peel it back to inspect the wound. The stitches are neat, holding the skin together in a clean line, and the redness is beginning to fade, the swelling almost gone.

“Looks good,” I murmur, my eyes focused on the incision. “The healing is right where we want it to be. Have you been following the instructions? Keeping it elevated?”

He grumbles something under his breath, but I catch a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’m doing my best, Doc. Though I’d rather be lifting a beer than keeping this arm elevated.”

I laugh, a genuine sound that feels good in my chest. “Maybe soon,” I say, moving back to the chart. “But for now, let’s stick to the plan.”

He nods, his smile widening. “You’re the boss,” he concedes.

I scribble a few notes on the chart, making sure everything is in order for his discharge. “You should be out of here soon, Mr. Wallace,” I assure him, and I see the relief in his eyes, the way his shoulders seem to relax just a little bit.

“Good,” he mutters. “I’ve got a dog at home who’s probably thinking I’ve abandoned him.”

I smile again, making a note to myself to check in on his paperwork one last time before he leaves. “We’ll get you back to your dog soon enough,” I promise. “But first, I need to go over some discharge instructions with you. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He nods, looking grateful, and I give him a reassuring pat on the arm before turning to leave the room. As I step back into the hallway, the noise of the hospital rushes back in—cartwheeling down the corridors, voices echoing off the walls, the beeping of monitors from unseen rooms.

I make my way back to the nurses’ station, dropping off Mr. Wallace’s chart before heading to the small alcove where I’ve stashed my papers. I find my discharge forms, a stack of them, and thumb through until I find his. I check his file again, making sure all the necessary signatures are in place, all the boxes checked.

My mind drifts again, despite myself, back to that night with Romiro. The rain soaking through my clothes, the taste of his lips against mine, the feeling of his hands gripping my waist as if he might lose me if he let go. When he found me in the park, his eyes dark with worry, his hair plastered to his forehead from the downpour. I was angry, hurt, but the moment I saw him, the fight went out of me. And then, somehow, we were kissing, and everything else faded away.

But now, back in the hospital, it feels like a dream, like something too good to be true. I shake my head, refocusing on the paper in front of me, the scrawl of my handwriting filling out the last of the information. I don’t have time to think about Romiro right now. I have patients, responsibilities, people counting on me.

I head over to the attending physician to get the final sign-off on Mr. Wallace’s discharge, weaving through the crowd of staff in the busy corridor. Doctor Harris is at the counter, flipping through a stack of charts, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Doctor Harris,” I say, stepping up beside him. “I’ve got a patient in 312, Mr. Wallace, ready for discharge. Just need your signature to finalize.”

He looks up, his expression softening when he sees me. “Ah, yes, Mr. Wallace,” he says, taking the papers from my hand. “Good work on his case, Alessia. You managed his post-op complications well.”

I nod, feeling a small flush of pride at his words. “Thank you, Doctor Harris. I’ll make sure he understands his discharge instructions before he leaves.”

He signs the papers with a flourish and hands them back to me. “Good. Keep up the good work, Doctor.”

I take the papers and head back toward Room 312, feeling a little lighter, a little more focused. I glance at the clock on the wall; it’s still early, the day stretching out ahead of me like an endless road. But for the first time in days, I don’t feel weighed down by it. There’s a clarity in the work, a purpose, a sense of moving forward.

I step back into Mr. Wallace’s room, finding him sitting up, his expression a mix of hope and impatience. “Good news,” I say, holding up the discharge papers. “Looks like you’re getting out of here today.”

He breaks into a grin, the lines on his face softening with relief. “About damn time,” he mutters, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.

I laugh, setting the papers down on the table and pulling up a chair beside him. “Okay, here’s the deal,” I say, my tone serious but gentle. “I’m going to go over these instructions with you, and I need you to listen carefully, okay?”

He nods, his eyes fixed on mine, and I start explaining—how he needs to keep the wound clean, what signs of infection to look out for, when to take his medication. He listens carefully, nodding along, asking questions here and there, and I feel a sense of satisfaction settle over me. This is why I do what I do, why I push through the exhaustion, the long hours. To help people, to make a difference, even in these small ways.

When I finish, he reaches out and gives my hand a firm shake. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, his voice sincere. “You’ve been really good to me.”

I smile, squeezing his hand back. “Just doing my job, Mr. Wallace. But I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

He nods, his smile widening. “I’ll make sure to keep this arm elevated, like you said. And maybe I’ll hold off on the beer for a little while.”

I laugh. “Sounds like a good plan.”

Standing I gather the papers and turn to leave. But before I go, I pause, glancing back at him. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” I say softly. “And take care of that dog of yours, too.”

He nods, his expression softening. “I will, Doc. And you take care of yourself, too.”

I smile, nodding. “I will. I promise. I’ll have someone finish up your discharge papers and get a wheelchair ready for you. Take care now.”

I step back into the hallway, the noise and bustle of the hospital surrounding me once again, but there’s a lightness in my step, a sense of purpose that carries me forward. I feel a faint buzz in my pocket and reach for my phone, already knowing who it is before I see the screen light up.

A message from Romiro.

Romiro

Miss me yet, Red?

I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips, a warmth spreading through my chest that wasn’t there a moment ago. The memory of him, drenched in rain, pulling me against him, the world blurring around us, flickers back into my mind. For a second, I let myself remember the way his hands gripped my waist, the way he kissed me like he needed me more than air. How, even after everything, he found me, found a way to bring us back from the brink.

I type a quick reply.

Me

Don’t get too cocky. I’m busy saving lives over here.

I hit send and slip the phone back into my pocket, a smile lingering on my lips as I turn and head back toward the nurses’ station.

There’s a flurry of activity as I approach—nurses and techs moving quickly, charts being shuffled, and I see Sheila again, her face pinched with concentration as she types something into the computer.

“Sheila,” I say, catching her eye. “Can you make sure Mr. Wallace gets his discharge paperwork and a wheelchair to the front? He’s ready to go.”

Sheila nods, a quick smile crossing her face. “Got it, Doctor Visconti. I’ll handle it.”

I thank her and turn back to the hallway, moving toward the next task on my never-ending list. I feel a buzz in my pocket again, and my heart skips a beat. I pull out my phone, glancing down at the screen.

Romiro

You’re busy saving lives, huh? Good thing I have nine of them.

I roll my eyes at the message, but my smile widens. I’m about to type a snarky reply when I hear my name being called from down the hall.

“Doctor Visconti!” It’s Doctor Harris again, his tone urgent, pulling me back to the present. I slip my phone away and turn to face him.

“Yes, Doctor Harris?” I ask, moving toward him, my expression shifting back to professional mode.

He holds out a chart to me, his face serious. “I need you to check on a new admit in Room 218. Possible sepsis, post-op complications from another hospital. We’re getting the lab results now, but I’d like you to get a sense of their condition.”

I nod, taking the chart from his hands and glancing over the notes. The details are sparse, but enough to get a picture of what I’m walking into. “Got it,” I say, my mind already switching gears, filing away thoughts of Romiro for later.

I head down the hall toward Room 218, feeling the adrenaline pick up, sharpening my focus. The halls are a blur of blue scrubs and white coats, the low hum of medical monitors and hushed conversations weaving through the air. I pass by a window, catching a glimpse of the sun climbing higher in the sky, its light reflecting off the glass in a bright, blinding arc. I blink, refocusing, feeling the familiar rhythm of the hospital settle back into my bones.

I push open the door to Room 218, stepping inside with a deep breath. The room is dimly lit, the blinds half-drawn, and I see a woman lying in the bed, her face pale, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her breathing is shallow, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven intervals. I quickly scan the room, noting the IV lines, the machines beeping steadily beside her, the half-empty bag of fluids hanging on the stand.

“Good morning,” I say softly, moving to the foot of the bed, my eyes on the patient. “I’m Doctor Visconti. How are you feeling?”

She blinks up at me, her eyes glassy with fever. “Not… not great,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, strained with the effort.

I nod, stepping closer, reaching for the stethoscope draped around my neck. “I’m going to take a quick listen, alright? Just breathe as normally as you can for me.”

She nods weakly, and I lean in, placing the cool metal of the stethoscope against her chest, listening to the rapid, uneven thumping of her heart, the shallow wheeze of her breaths. I frown slightly, adjusting the stethoscope, trying to get a clearer sound.

Her skin is hot to the touch, the fever radiating off her in waves, and I feel the pulse in her wrist—fast, too fast. My mind runs through possibilities, potential diagnoses, my brain working like a machine, moving from one thought to the next.

“How long have you been feeling like this?” I ask, keeping my voice calm, steady, my eyes on her face.

“Since… since yesterday,” she murmurs, her eyelids fluttering. “I thought it was just the… the flu, but…”

She trails off, her voice fading, and I squeeze her hand gently. “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “You’re in the right place now. We’re going to take care of you.”

I turn to the nurse beside me, my tone brisk, efficient. “Let’s get another set of labs, blood cultures, chest X-ray, and start her on broad-spectrum antibiotics. And call for a respiratory consult—she’s showing signs of distress.”

The nurse nods, moving quickly, and I turn back to the patient, offering a reassuring smile. “You’re going to be fine,” I say, though my mind is already racing through the next steps, the tests, the treatments.

She nods weakly, her eyes fluttering closed, and I step back, letting the nurse take over. I make a few more notes in the chart, jotting down my observations, my recommendations, my brain already moving ahead to the next case, the next task.

But even as I move through the routine, my mind slips back to Romiro, to the way he looked at me in the rain, his eyes so intense, so full of something I can’t quite name. I think about the way he held me afterward, his hands steady, his voice a soft murmur in the storm, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, we’re finding our way to something real.

I push the thought away, turning back to the work in front of me, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over my shoulders again. There’s still so much to do, so many people counting on me. But for now, at this moment, I feel okay. I feel… enough.

And that’s something. That’s more than I’ve felt in a long time.