Chapter 12

— Nolan's POV —

His fingers slipped from mine, but the weight of his touch lingered like bruises made of heat.

I quickly pulled the sleeve down, tighter this time, like I could erase what he saw. Like hiding it again would somehow undo the fact that he knew.

I didn't dare look at him.

My thoughts were everywhere — messy, loud, slipping through the cracks of my composure.

Why didn't he say anything?

Why didn't he accuse me, ask questions, mock me the way he usually does?

That silence was worse than anything.

I sat there, still, frozen in place like a child caught doing something unspeakable. Shame clawed its way up my throat, bitter and uninvited.

I wanted to speak — to say something. To deflect. To lie.

But the words just wouldn't come.

He stayed standing for a moment, watching me. Not like a man who had won. Not like someone holding power.

No.

He looked… hurt.

And that terrified me more than anger ever could.

It was the first time I saw something in his eyes that felt too human. Too real.

Like guilt.

And I hated it. Hated how it made my chest feel hollow and tight. Like something important had been ripped out and replaced with nothing.

I wasn't supposed to feel seen by him.

I wasn't supposed to care.

The air between us felt heavy — not tense, but weighted by everything we weren't saying.

Finally, I stood.

My knees barely cooperated. My hand was still trembling.

He didn't stop me this time. Didn't step closer or whisper threats or press himself into my space like he usually did.

He just watched.

That was worse, too.

I turned toward the door, heart pounding.

But before I stepped out, I paused. Just enough to catch my breath. Just enough to ask myself a question I didn't want to answer.

What if he was the only one who ever really noticed?

I shook it off. Walked out.

Didn't look back.

But the heat of his gaze stayed with me long after I was gone.

---

I didn't stop at Zade's office.

Didn't stop to answer anyone's calls or glances or questions.

I walked straight out of the hospital like the building itself was pressing down on me.

I couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

Everything felt too loud inside my head. Every step echoed like a scream under my skin.

I just wanted it to stop.

The second I got home, I locked the door behind me — not once, but twice — like it could somehow keep everything out. Him out. My own thoughts out.

I didn't even take off my shoes.

I went straight to the bathroom.

And just stood there.

Staring at the sleeve of my coat. Then at the mirror. Then back down.

My fingers moved on their own, slowly peeling the fabric back.

There they were.

The marks.

Still angry. Still too real.

I stepped to the sink, turned on the tap, and shoved my wrist under the cold water. It stung — a sharp, almost electric burn. But I didn't stop.

I rubbed at them. Hard. As if I could erase them with enough pressure.

As if skin could forget.

Red bloomed under my touch — not fresh blood, but close enough. My vision blurred with the heat of something unspoken, something I didn't have words for.

And that was when I heard it.

His voice.

Echoing in my skull like it had been carved into the bone.

> "Don't do something like this again… or I won't let it slide."

I froze.

My hand still clutching my wrist.

The threat. The concern. I didn't even know what it was anymore. I couldn't separate the fear from the comfort. Couldn't tell if he meant it or if I wanted him to.

I slowly sank to the cold bathroom floor, back against the wall, wrist still dripping under the open tap.

Everything felt heavy again.

Like I was being pulled under by something invisible.

Like I was drowning and no one could see.

So I just sat there.

Trying to breathe.

Trying to be still.

Trying not to feel anything at all.

---

I didn't do it because I wanted to die.

I know why I do this.

I know exactly why.

It's the silence. The stillness. When the world isn't loud and distracting — when I'm not diagnosing patients or pretending to be normal — it starts.

The darkness.

That heavy, hollow ache in my chest that whispers, What's the point?

That voice that reminds me I have no one. That I came from nothing. That even if I vanished, no one would notice except Zade. And even he would eventually move on.

That feeling like I don't belong anywhere.

I grew up with that silence. In an overcrowded orphanage where names were forgotten faster than birthdays. Where hugs didn't exist and survival meant staying invisible.

And sometimes, when it all becomes too much — when the emptiness presses against my ribs — this is the only thing that quiets it.

The blood.

The sting.

The release.

It feels like the darkness leaks out with it.

Just for a second.

Just enough to breathe.

But tonight, even that shattered.

Because now… he knows.

His voice echoed through my mind like a warning I couldn't forget.