-Sloane Pierce:
The past three days had been nothing short of… peculiar.
Hospitals were supposed to run like carefully timed machines, each gear moving in rhythm, visitors in and out at scheduled hours, rules applied without exception.
Yet somehow, with this particular patient, those rules had seemed to bend—no, break entirely.
Patient 214. Roxy Delgado.
From the very moment she had been wheeled out of the operating room, her family had filled the hallways.
I'd seen families camp out before, but never like this. Seven men—her brothers, I'd later learned—had stormed into the hospital that first night like a small army, voices raised, demanding information. Security had been ready to intervene, but somehow… they hadn't.
Nurses looked wary, other doctors whispered, but no one pushed back. By the next morning, it was as though the hospital had collectively decided that the Delgados were an exception to every policy.
It was strange.
Normally, only one visitor was allowed in the room at a time, especially in the intensive recovery wing. But with Roxy, it was as if the door was revolving—her parents, her brothers, sometimes even their partners. And no one said a word.
No scolding from the charge nurse. No warnings about visitor limits. No insistence on hospital quiet hours.
I'd caught myself wondering why. Influence, maybe. Money. Perhaps one of them was an investor, or had connections with the board. Whatever it was, it worked.
Staff members treated them with a kind of polite deference, the kind usually reserved for donors or highly influential families.
A quiet wariness hung in the air whenever they walked through the halls, leather jackets and heavy boots tracking in a presence that didn't belong in sterile, fluorescent corridors.
But for all that strangeness, one thing had been undeniable: they loved her.
Fiercely. I'd seen it in the way they hovered, in the exhaustion stamped on their faces, in the protective wall they formed around her bed. They weren't leaving her side, not for a second.
I'd told myself not to think too much about it. My job wasn't to untangle hospital politics or family dynamics. My job was to keep Roxy alive, to heal her body, to check every suture and every scan until she was steady on her feet again.
-
That morning, I'd been in the cafeteria, cup of bitter coffee warming my hands, when one of the floor nurses approached me. "Dr. Pierce," she said, almost out of breath. "Patient 214 is awake. The Delgado girl. We need you to check her neurological status."
I blinked. "She's conscious?"
"Just woke up. Vitals are stable. Family's already with her."
Of course they were.
I nodded, setting down my coffee half-drunk. There wasn't a world in which I'd refuse. The only reason I'd been the one to handle her surgeries in the first place was because the ER had been overflowing.
They needed hands, and I never said no when someone needed help, whether or not it fell within my specialty. Neurosurgery was my field, but emergencies blurred lines. A body in crisis didn't wait for convenience.
I walked to the scrub sink, washing my hands with automatic precision, movements drilled into me by years of repetition.
Soap, rinse, dry. I checked her latest vitals on the chart—blood pressure slightly low but stable, pulse normal, oxygen saturation holding steady. Good signs.
Room 214.
The moment I pushed the door open, it became obvious just how unusual this case was.
The room was full. Not just one visitor sneaking in, not two bending the rules. At least ten people were crammed inside—her parents, several men I recognized from the hallway confrontations three nights ago, women who looked like partners, even a few children huddled near the back.
It wasn't a hospital room anymore; it was a gathering space, thick with murmurs and laughter that halted the instant I stepped inside.
All eyes turned to me.
I straightened my coat, adjusted my glasses, and forced my expression into calm professionalism. "Good morning," I said, my voice even. "I'm Dr. Sloane Pierce. I was asked to check on Roxy's condition."
The crowd parted slightly, and that was when I saw her.
Roxy Delgado, propped up against a stack of pillows, her dark hair a tangled halo against the white sheets.
Her skin was pale, bruises painting her face, and bandages covered one arm and the side of her leg. But her eyes—sharp, dark, alive—were fixed on me with an intensity I hadn't expected.
She smirked. Actually smirked.
I blinked, wondering if I'd misread the expression.
Coming out of a three-day unconscious stretch could leave anyone disoriented, confused. Maybe it was just muscle twitching, some half-formed reaction.
But no. The curve of her mouth was deliberate.
"Hello," I said carefully, moving closer. "How are you feeling?"
Her gaze swept over me, slow and assessing. "So much better," she said, voice hoarse from disuse, "now that you're here."
The room went silent.
I froze for a fraction of a second, unsure how to respond. Surely, she didn't mean… No.
Patients said things, sometimes strange things, when they were groggy or in pain.
Gratitude often came out in unusual ways. I told myself that was all it was. Gratitude. Relief. Nothing more.
I gave her a polite, professional smile. "That's good to hear. Let's run through a quick check."
Her eyes didn't leave me as I put on my gloves and gently touched her temple, palpating along the side where she'd sustained head trauma. "Any pain here?"
She shook her head slightly, still smirking.
I shone a penlight into her eyes, watching her pupils contract evenly. Good. Reflexes intact.
I continued with the exam, methodical as always—checking her responsiveness, asking her to follow my finger, lifting her arm gently to test for resistance.
"So what's your name, doc?" she asked, voice low, carrying just enough teasing lilt to make one of her brothers groan behind me.
I hesitated only briefly. "Dr. Sloane Pierce."
She repeated it, as though tasting it. "Sloane Pierce." Her lips curved again, eyes glittering despite the bruises.
Behind me, I heard a muttered, "Roxy, don't even fucking try. Not now." The voice was gruff, warning, one of her brothers.
I frowned faintly, but didn't look up. Whatever history lay between them wasn't mine to parse. I was here to do a job.
"Neurological responses look good," I said, finishing the check. "Your head injury seems stable. No alarming signs. You'll still need rest, but the worst has passed."
"Rest?" she echoed, tilting her head. "Hard to rest when I've got someone that looks like you all over me." She said in a raspy tone and smirk in her face.
I cleared my throat softly, focusing on removing my gloves. "You'll heal best if you follow the recommendations. Your leg will require physical therapy, but you should regain full mobility over time. There are some damaged nerves, but nothing irreversible."
Her parents leaned forward, eyes wide, relief washing over their faces. I turned slightly toward them, shifting into the part of the job I knew best—clear, structured guidance.
"She'll need assistance for now," I explained. "Nursing staff will help while she's admitted. Once discharged, she'll require at-home support. Bandages must be changed daily, and it's crucial they remain dry—no submerging in water. Showers only, and cover the wounds carefully."
They nodded, listening intently.
"She'll also need to avoid prolonged screen time," I added. "Phones, tablets, television. Blue light can exacerbate headaches and delay healing. Sleep is critical. Encourage hydration, balanced nutrition—no processed junk food, as tempting as it may be. Protein, leafy greens, whole foods. That will help the nerves recover faster."
One of her brothers scribbled notes on his phone, while another stood with arms crossed, eyes narrowing each time Roxy smirked in my direction.
"And physical therapy?" her mother asked softly.
"Yes," I confirmed. "Daily sessions after she heals, starting gradually. It will be painful at first, but progress should come steadily. With commitment, she'll walk again. And eventually, We'll see her ride again in no time."
The last part slipped out before I could stop myself. I'd heard the whispers, seen the leather jackets, the helmets resting in corners of the waiting area.
Riding was their life, and hers. I regretted the slip almost instantly, but her eyes lit up at the words.
She leaned forward just slightly, winced at the pull in her ribs, but never broke eye contact. "You want to see me ride, doc?"
I swallowed, pulse jumping, but forced myself to maintain composure. "I want to see all my patients recover their quality of life."
Her smirk deepened.
I glanced at her family. One of her brothers pinched the bridge of his nose as though already exhausted by her antics. Another gave me an apologetic shrug.
"Alright," I said briskly, stepping back. "That's enough for today. Rest is priority. I'll check in again tomorrow."
I offered them all a final professional smile, then turned to leave. The weight of her gaze followed me to the door, the heat of it unsettling in a way I couldn't quite name.
It wasn't the first time a patient had expressed unusual gratitude, but this… this had felt different. Sharper. More intentional.
And for the first time in a long time, as I walked back down the corridor, my composure wavered.
Because I wasn't sure how to feel about it.