Ken was busy in his world, a world of patients, charts, and steady hands and I didn't want to interrupt.
Yet I lingered just long enough to watch him in motion, to see the ease with which he navigated his day, the calm authority that made everything feel contained.
He didn't see me at first, busy with a patient, explaining something in that gentle, precise voice that had a way of soothing fear without being condescending.
I stayed in the background, quiet, observing.
It was maddening.
The way he moved, calm and effortless, the way patients trusted him instantly, the way his presence seemed to draw respect and reassurance, I couldn't look away.
I shifted slightly, making my presence known, though not too much.
A quiet cough.
A soft step on the polished floor.
His eyes flicked to me for a moment, that small, faint smile, and then he returned to his patient as if I hadn't existed at all.
I watched him for a while, drinking in the sight of him immersed in something he loved, something that didn't require the chaos of city lights, cameras, or fame.
No pretense.
No expectation.
Just… Ken.
I felt a pang, unfamiliar, uncomfortable, curling inside me.
He was calm.
He was strong.
And he had no need for me here.
Time passed, the morning stretching lazily as I moved from corner to corner, careful not to intrude, careful not to disrupt the rhythm of the hospital.
And then he noticed me properly.
"Ysabelle?" His voice, soft but carrying a note of concern, pulled me back from the spiral of my thoughts.
"I'm… here," I said simply. Neutral. Cold. Observing.
"You didn't have to come," he said, turning fully now, wiping his hands, the faint crease in his brow betraying the hint of worry I knew he tried not to show.
"I wanted to," I replied evenly.
He gave me that small, knowing smile, the one that never failed to unsettle me, despite myself.
Then he gestured toward a quiet corner where we could talk.
"You're early," he said lightly, "and I appreciate the visit. But are you… okay?"
I paused, caught off guard by the genuine concern in his tone.
I was so used to people seeing me as the actress, the cold figure, the untouchable persona, not this.
Not someone they genuinely cared for without agenda or expectation.
"I'm fine," I said finally, voice steady, eyes sharp, hiding the way my chest tightened.
Ken didn't push. Just nodded, that small, calm acknowledgment that made my heart betray me with a fraction too much warmth.
We talked quietly, minimal words, letting the soft hum of the hospital fill the gaps between us.
I observed him, noticing the way his eyes softened when a patient smiled, the subtle inflection in his voice when he reassured someone scared or in pain, the ease with which he commanded attention without ever raising it too much.
And I hated it.
Not the man himself, never that.
I hated the way my own chest responded to him.
The heat rising in my ears, the subtle flutter in my stomach, the unbidden awareness of his nearness.
"Ysabelle," he said softly, breaking a long silence, "you've been quiet. You okay?"
I swallowed, tilting my head slightly. "I'm… observing," I said, deliberately noncommittal.
He laughed softly, that warm, quiet sound that made my pulse jump before I could stop it. "You're intense. Always analyzing."
"I have to be," I replied flatly, taking a slow step back to give myself space. "It's… how I survive."
He didn't press further.
Didn't prod.
Just nodded, understanding in his eyes without needing to comment.
I stayed longer than necessary, watching him move from patient to patient, offering small, quiet reassurances, laughter, and a touch of humor when needed.
I noticed the subtle way he shifted his weight when someone leaned in to ask a question, the tilt of his head when listening intently, the calm patience in his gestures.
It should have made me feel at ease.
Instead, it made my chest ache.
The morning stretched into early afternoon.
Ken glanced at his watch again, this time catching the tired tension in my posture.
"You should rest," he said softly, not as a command, but a suggestion wrapped in care.
I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite myself. "I'll be fine."
But my mind was elsewhere, replaying the moments with Keisha in the café, the soft honesty of her confession, the way she had dared to admit feelings for Ken so casually, so openly.
And now here I was, watching him again, feeling the sting of my own inattention to a heart I wasn't willing to control.
I stayed until Ken had finished attending to his patients, finally allowing myself to step back, to give space for him to move freely without my cold presence hanging over him.
"Thanks for… stopping by," he said quietly, that subtle warmth again, as if he sensed the storm within me but chose to acknowledge only the surface.
"I'll see you later," I said softly, voice steady, hiding the tightness in my chest.
And without another word, I turned, walking toward the exit of the hospital.
The streets were quiet now, afternoon sun painting the town in soft gold.
I kept my cap low, hoodie tight, and walked without hurry, letting the weight of my emotions settle just enough that I could function.
But I knew, deep inside, that the encounter with Keisha and the quiet hours observing Ken had stirred something in me I wasn't ready to name.
Something I might not ever be able to name.