The girl stood on the other side of the railing. There was no doubt about her intention to jump from the bridge…
At the very start of her night shift, the ambulance brought in a young man. His car had collided with an SUV at the intersection. After hours of surgery, the patient was wheeled into intensive care, while the surgeon, Eleanor Whitmore, sat in the doctors’ office, documenting the operation.
“Coffee, Eleanor,” said the experienced nurse, Margaret Hayes, setting a steaming mug on the edge of the desk.
“Thank you. Call me when the patient wakes,” Eleanor murmured without looking up from her notes.
“Rest while you can. It’s quiet for now.”
“You know as well as I do—when a shift starts like this, trouble’s bound to follow,” Eleanor countered.
And she was right. Before she could finish her coffee, another patient was rushed in. By dawn, Eleanor was dead on her feet, collapsing into her chair and dozing off atop the paperwork. Then Margaret shook her awake—the accident victim had regained consciousness.
Eleanor could’ve said her shift was over, that another doctor would check on him, that all would be fine. But she stood and walked to the ICU. It wasn’t in her nature to leave without knowing how her patient fared.
The linoleum in the corridor gleamed under the fluorescent lights like the surface of a still pond. Eleanor stepped quietly into the room. Yesterday, she hadn’t gotten a good look at him—now she saw a strikingly handsome man tangled in wires and monitors. She scanned the vitals, then met his gaze.
Even lying in a hospital bed, he radiated arrogance, his eyes appraising her with cool detachment. She wished she had even a fraction of his confidence. Her fingers twitched, but she held his stare.
“How do you feel, William Hargreaves?” she asked. “We had to remove your spleen. You lost a lot of blood. Two ribs are fractured, but your lungs are intact. You’re lucky.”
“Thank you,” he replied hoarsely.
“My shift’s over. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and left.
The ambulance dropping off another patient gave her a lift home. Her ginger cat, Marmalade, wound around her ankles before trotting to the kitchen. She was desperate for sleep, but first—food for Marmalade, or he’d never let her rest. She barely touched the pillow before exhaustion pulled her under.
The next day, the patient looked markedly better. He even smiled when she entered his room.
“Good morning. You’re recovering well. We’ll move you to a regular ward today—your phone, too, so you can call family.”
“Nobody’s waiting for me in this city,” William said, that same infuriating superiority in his gaze. How did he manage it even now?
“When will I be discharged?”
“You’ve just had surgery, two broken ribs—a week at least. Excuse me, other patients are waiting.”
Before leaving that evening, she checked his vitals one last time. His amused expression lingered, unsettling her. A shiver raced down her spine. She’d seen that smirk before. She prided herself on remembering faces, yet his eluded her—just the smirk gnawed at her memory.
The next morning, he was sitting up in bed, wearing a fresh T-shirt.
“The nurse brought it. My clothes were ruined,” he said, catching her surprise. “Eleanor Whitmore… you want to ask me something.”
“Do we… know each other?”
“Not that I recall. I never forget a beautiful woman.” His smirk returned, then vanished with a wince. Broken ribs were unforgiving.
“You can get up—slowly.”
“Will you come back?” he asked abruptly.
“If the shift allows.” What possessed him to act as though she owed him something?
The following day, he cut straight to it. “Remember where we met yet?”
“I must’ve been mistaken.”
“But I think we have. Your eyes—I’d know them anywhere.”
“What’s wrong with my eyes?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but curiosity burned.
“That first day, I thought you were just tired. But even rested, your gaze stayed the same. Wary. Like you’re waiting for something terrible.”
“Rubbish. You’ll be discharged in three days.”
He started to thank her, but she was already out the door.
On discharge day, the nurse handed him his paperwork.
“Where’s Eleanor?”
“She’s in surgery.”
William lingered in the corridor, watching the doctors’ lounge. When Eleanor emerged, he intercepted her.
“In such a hurry to leave, yet you stayed,” she remarked, arching a brow.
“Have you been avoiding me?” No shame, just bluntness. “I couldn’t leave without thanking you. You saved my life.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“If you hadn’t operated, I’d be dead, yes?” He stepped closer. “Let me repay you. Dinner. Just talk. No strings.”
“You’re insufferable. Fine. I need time to change.”
“Seven o’clock. The Old Talbot. Near your flat.”
“You know where I live?”
“Is it a secret?”
“Easier to agree than argue with you,” she muttered.
After her shift, Eleanor showered, styled her hair, applied subtle makeup. She debated her wardrobe—always black, always slimming. Tonight demanded something different. She discarded pink, dismissed blue, then pulled out an emerald-green dress. Perfect.
At seven sharp, she entered the restaurant. Live music played softly. William rose from a corner table, impeccably dressed, his usual arrogance softened by something like admiration.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admitted.
She skimmed the menu under his scrutiny, then set it aside, ordering a Caesar salad and coffee. He mirrored her, adding steak.
“Rare name—Eleanor. Father a fan of literature?”
“Guilty.”
“And my full name? Too many syllables for most.”
She laughed.
“Finally, a real smile.”
Between bites, he grew serious. “Years ago, when I was a student, I was crossing a bridge in the rain. Saw a girl on the wrong side of the railing. No question what she meant to do. I told her the water was too cold, that no misery at her age was worth dying over.”
Eleanor’s fork stilled.
“She climbed back. Bought her coffee—only had enough for one. She told me why she wanted to die.”
“You forgot to mention she was fat,” Eleanor whispered. “‘Even a hurricane couldn’t lift a house with fat Ellie inside,’ they said. ‘Did you eat an elephant for breakfast?'”
William’s face darkened.
“After ninth grade, my class went camping. One boy asked me to walk with him—I was so happy. Then he pushed me into the river. I couldn’t swim. They laughed while I swallowed mud.”
His knuckles whitened around his glass.
“You stopped me jumping that night. I vowed to lose weight, become a doctor. Starved myself to do it. One professor warned pregnancy would undo it all—my genetics were cursed.”
“I remembered your eyes. Haunted but determined.”
“Years later, one of those girls sat in my clinic. She didn’t recognize me. I wanted to hurt her.” Eleanor pressed her palms to her face.
William reached across the table. “I saved you then. You saved me now. That accident brought me here for a reason.”
“I have surgeries tomorrow.” She stood, drained.
“Let me walk you home.”
The next morning, a bouquet waited on her desk. A note nestled among the blooms:
“Twice is no coincidence. No one will ever hurt you again. I’ll be back.”
Eleanor stared at the words. She’d spent years controlling every calorie, every emotion. Could she really trust someone to take care of her? And what then?
A week later, true to his word, William returned.
