Chapter 2

Alex was moving fast, taking long strides, the hem of his white coat cutting a clean arc through the air. He had a mask on, leaving only his eyes exposed.

Those eyes—I knew them far too well. I would've recognized him even if he'd turned to ash. His eyes were calm and deep and always sizing people up like they were just medical specimens.

Five years ago, he had looked at me with those same eyes and said, "Anna, I want a divorce."

I'd asked him why. He'd replied, "No reason. We're not right for each other."

That was it—one line, enough to wipe out seven years, from school uniforms to a wedding dress.

Now he was looking at me again. No—he was looking at Charlie in my arms. He stopped about six feet away from me.

For the first time, something other than clinical detachment flickered in his eyes. There were shock, disbelief, and a trace of panic.

The chart and pen in his hand slipped free and hit the floor with a sharp clatter. The sound echoed through the quiet ER, jarringly loud.

The nurses around us froze for a beat. To them, Alex was the kind of man who wouldn't blink even if the sky fell in.

I froze too, with Charlie still in my arms. I had imagined our reunion a thousand times. Maybe it'd happen on some random street corner or in the middle of a supermarket. I even pictured him tracking me down one day, wanting to know about his kid.

In every version, I was the one in control—the queen who owned the room. I would be perfectly made up, draped in designer brands, and holding the cutest son. I'd give him a cool smile and say, "Sir, do we know each other?"

Not like this with messy hair, dark circles under my eyes, wearing an old, pilled coat, clutching a half-delirious, burning child—looking like a refugee on the run. This was a complete train wreck.

"C-Come on in," he said. His voice, muffled slightly by the mask, was the familiar, cool, and clear tone I remembered.

He bent to pick up his pen, his movement a little stiff. A young nurse rushed over, retrieving it for him. He took the pen and murmured a polite "Thank you," but his eyes remained glued to Charlie.

Holding Charlie to my chest, I robotically followed him into the examination room. It was small and, as always, reeked of antiseptic.

He took off his mask, revealing the face I had looked at for seven years and cursed in my dreams for five. He was still stunningly handsome. Time hadn't left a trace on him. If anything, it had stripped away that old awkwardness and given him a whole new level of mature, masculine charm.

"Lay him down on the bed," Alex said, his voice slipping back into that usual cool tone, like he was talking to just another worried mother.

I carefully placed Charlie on the examination table.

Charlie whined miserably, his little hands flailing in the air.

Alex approached and reached out to feel Charlie's forehead. His hand was beautiful; his fingers were long and slender. The instant he touched Charlie's skin, I noticed he shivered almost imperceptibly.

He withdrew his hand and began examining Charlie with his stethoscope—listening to his heart, checking his throat, and pressing on his abdomen. His movements were professional and gentle, a world away from the man I remembered who couldn't tell his elbow from his arse.

I stood awkwardly on the sidelines, feeling completely out of place. The air was thick with a strange silence.

He and I were once the two people closest in the world. We knew every inch of each other's bodies and all of our little quirks. Yet now, we were complete strangers, and the only bridge between us was this sick child.

"Acute upper respiratory infection, with preliminary signs of convulsion brought on by a high fever." His examination was over, and he delivered his conclusion in a tone that brooked no argument. "We need to start an IV drip immediately and begin physical cooling."

As he spoke, he started writing in the patient chart. His handwriting was still the same chicken scratch, but I recognized it.

I managed a dry "Okay," my throat too parched to utter anything else.

He finished writing and handed the slip to me. "Go pay the fees, then head to the infusion room."

I took the slip, my fingertips accidentally brushing against his. We both jerked our hands back like we'd been shocked.

I gripped that flimsy slip and turned to go. I didn't want to spend another second there.

Just as I reached the door, I heard Charlie behind me, his voice shaky and muffled with tears. "Dad..."

I stopped. I spun around abruptly. I saw that Charlie had opened his eyes at some point. He was looking straight at Alex by the bed, his little hand reaching out to him.

Alex was frozen stiff, his whole body tensing up.

My mind went completely blank. This was it. My son, right in front of his own mother, had called the father who had been dead to him for five years Dad.