Page 86 of Sexting the Boss
He snorts. “Sure.”
A transport tech comes in, and they move me to a quieter room upstairs. Malik stays through it, then he stands at the doorway like he’s trying to decide if leaving is the right thing.
“You’re sure you’re good?” he asks again.
I nod. “Go home.”
He holds my gaze another second. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll check my phone.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
He smiles once. “Too late.”
He leaves, and the room gets still.
I’m alone for ten minutes, and I’m trying to breathe through the nausea and the anger and the humiliation, then my nurse comes back with another bag of fluids and an annoyed look.
“Your emergency contact is on the way,” she says.
My head snaps up. “I said no.”
“You declined,” she replies, “then the doctor documented that because of the fainting episode, pregnancy, abnormal labs, and the fact that you’re staying overnight, discharge planning and support contacts are recommended, and you weren’t in a position to leave. He was listed. The call went out.”
My stomach drops hard.
“Who,” I ask, even though I already know.
The nurse watches my face. “Ethan Cross.”
I close my eyes and press my fingers to my forehead. For one second I want to be sick purely out of spite.
“This is not happening,” I say.
“It is,” she replies, then she softens slightly. “Do you want a privacy note? Do you want him barred from the unit?”
My lungs feel too tight. I should say yes and protect the boundary. I should do all the things I came here to do.
Instead, I hear Malik’s voice in my head asking if I’m safe, and I remember fainting in a lobby, and I remember that I’m not just protecting myself anymore.
“No,” I say quietly. “Just…don’t let him in until I say.”
She nods. “Okay.”
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at my door, and my nurse peeks in.
“He’s here,” she says. “Do you want him?”
I sit up slowly, because I’ve been warned twice, and I breathe through my nose until my hands stop shaking.
“Yes,” I say. The word tastes like a decision I don’t trust.
She steps out, and then Ethan walks in.
He looks the same and he doesn’t. His hair is shorter, his face is rougher, and his eyes are locked in that contained focus that used to make me feel safe and crowded at the same time.
He stops just inside the room, hands down, posture neutral, and he doesn’t approach the bed like he owns the space.
“Hi,” he says.
