Bianca had spent years learning how to keep her face calm.

Patients needed steadiness. Families needed reassurance. Panic spread quickly inside hospitals, and nurses learned early that emotions had to be folded away neatly, like spare sheets in a cabinet.

But the moment Tristan Bellamy stepped farther into Room 412, Bianca felt every carefully built wall inside her tilt.

He looked different in daylight.

More dangerous somehow.

The city had polished him into something sharp and controlled. His dark hair was brushed back carelessly, expensive enough to look effortless. The charcoal suit fit him perfectly, but it was the quiet confidence beneath it that unsettled her.

He moved like a man accustomed to rooms adjusting themselves around him.

And yet his eyes stayed on her.

Not cold.
Not mocking.
Just… interested.

Too interested.

Eleanor noticed the silence immediately.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, looking between them. “Either you’ve met before or one of you owes the other money.”

Bianca nearly dropped the chart in her hand.

Tristan’s mouth curved.

“We’ve met,” he said smoothly.

Eleanor brightened. “Well! Isn’t that convenient?”

Bianca cleared her throat. “Very briefly.”

“Mm.” Tristan’s gaze held hers. “Very briefly.”

Heat crawled up Bianca’s neck.

She busied herself checking Eleanor’s medication tray even though she already knew everything on it.

“You should rest after physical therapy today,” she told Eleanor carefully. “No trying to charm the staff into letting you walk laps.”

“I’m wounded you know me so quickly.”

“You tried to bribe an orderly with cannoli this morning.”

“It almost worked.”

Tristan laughed softly.

The sound startled Bianca.

Men like him were not supposed to laugh like that. Warm. Real. Human.

She hated that she noticed.

“Well,” Eleanor announced grandly, “since my son is here pretending to be useful, he can stay while you explain these dreadful post-surgery exercises.”

“Mother—”

“No. Sit. Learn something.”

Bianca should have handed the instructions over quickly and escaped.

Instead, somehow, ten minutes passed with Tristan standing beside her while she demonstrated stretches using Eleanor’s blanket as an example.

Every time she looked up, his attention was already there.

Focused.
Steady.
Impossible to ignore.

Finally Eleanor yawned dramatically.

“I believe I require a nap. You two are exhausting me.”

Bianca seized the opportunity.

“I should check on my other patients.”

She turned too quickly.

And walked directly into Tristan Bellamy.

Solid chest.
Warm wool.
A sharp breath caught between them.

His hand closed around her elbow automatically to steady her.

The contact lasted less than two seconds.

It still felt like a spark against her skin.

“Sorry,” Bianca said immediately.

“You apologize often.”

His voice was low enough that Eleanor could not hear.

Bianca stepped back.

“That tends to happen when you accidentally invade billionaires’ vehicles.”

To her horror, amusement flashed in his eyes.

“You ran from me.”

“I was mortified.”

“You ran four blocks.”

Her stare sharpened. “You counted?”

A beat passed.

Then:

“Yes.”

Something strange unfolded in her chest.

Before she could understand it, another nurse called her name from down the hall.

Saved.

Bianca escaped Room 412 without looking back.

Unfortunately, her pulse did not get the message.

By Friday afternoon, the entire cardiology floor adored Eleanor Bellamy.

She flirted shamelessly with orderlies, complimented every nurse, and somehow convinced dietary services to bring her extra lemon cake.

Bianca had just finished updating charts when Eleanor beckoned her closer with conspiratorial excitement.

“My son is unbearable when he worries,” she whispered.

Bianca smiled despite herself. “Most family members are.”

“Oh no. Tristan becomes efficient. Which is much worse.”

As if summoned by name alone, Tristan appeared in the doorway.

His gaze found Bianca instantly.

Every time.

It should not matter.

It absolutely mattered.

He crossed the room carrying a small arrangement of white orchids.

Not the oversized dramatic kind rich men bought to impress people.

Simple.
Elegant.
Intentional.

“For you,” he told his mother.

Eleanor eyed them suspiciously. “You’re trying to soften me up before saying something unpleasant.”

“Your instincts remain terrifying.”

“I raised you.”

Bianca tried not to laugh.

Tristan looked at her.

The corner of his mouth moved.

That tiny almost-smile hit with embarrassing force.

Eleanor sighed theatrically. “Bianca, dear, would you help me? My son insists on pretending he isn’t overworked. Tell him he looks tired.”

Bianca glanced at Tristan automatically.

Big mistake.

Close up, he did look tired.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

Like exhaustion hidden beneath discipline.

“You should sleep more,” she said before she could stop herself.

His eyes darkened slightly.

“That sounds familiar.”

The SUV.

The warmth of leather.
The humiliation.
The way he had watched her wake up.

Bianca looked away first.

Eleanor observed all of this with dangerous interest.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Bianca immediately straightened. “I have rounds.”