The next day the room felt different—brighter, colder. I'd barely slept, replaying last night's touch, Kieran's mouth on me, the way he'd held me after until I drifted off. My body still hummed with afterglow and ache; the monitor beeped its steady reminder that I was still here, still fragile.
Around noon the door opened with the familiar burst of energy.
The girls swept in—Camila carrying a small bouquet, Isabella with a paper bag of cookies, Aveline holding a thermos, Ayla trailing with her gym bag slung over one shoulder. And behind them, again… Eliot.
He stepped in last, hands in his pockets, that same gentle smile on his face—like nothing had happened, like he hadn't walked out on me days ago.
My stomach twisted.
"Blossom!" Camila beamed, setting the flowers on the tray table. "We brought reinforcements. Eliot wanted to see you again. He's been asking about you nonstop."
Isabella plopped onto the foot of the bed. "He's been texting us like crazy. 'How's she doing? Is she alright ?' How's her health ?"
Aveline smiled softly. "He feels like he can't stay without you, he misses you."
Ayla nodded. "Yeah. You two will make sure an amazing couple! You guys need to talk ."
Eliot moved closer—slow, careful, like I was something breakable. He pulled the visitor chair up beside the bed and sat, elbows on his knees, looking up at me with those kind eyes I used to think were safe.
"Hey," he said softly. "You look… beautiful today. Even here. I've been thinking about you a lot. You are just so cute ."
He reached out, brushed a strand of hair behind my ear—gentle, almost tender.
But I didn't like the touch. No I did not.
"I was an idiot. I got scared. But I'm not anymore. I want to be here. For you. If you'll let me."
His fingers lingered on my cheek. Then he leaned in—slow, deliberate—and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles, just like the day before .
"I missed you," he murmured against my skin. "Let me make it right. Let me be the one who can love you, make you feel wanted, loved ."
The girls watched—hopeful, encouraging.
My heart pounded—not from him, but from the memory of Kieran's hands, his mouth, his voice whispering *come for me, sweet girl*.
This felt very wrong!
I needed to put him down, whether he is serious or not.
Even though rejecting someone was hard for me, specially when the person seems such a perfect person, but I had to. I didn't want him and that was the truth. I'm already in love. Deeply, madly, like never before.
I took a shaky breath.
"No," I said.
The word came out quiet, but clear.
Eliot's lips froze against my knuckles.
I pulled my hand back slowly.
"I don't want you to love me ," I whispered. "I don't want you to make anything right. You left when I needed someone most. You were scared of my body, of what it might do to you. And I get it. But I don't want someone who has to be convinced to touch me. I want someone who wants me—sick or not. All of me."
Silence.
Eliot's face changed—surprise, then something darker. His jaw clenched. The gentle mask cracked wide open.
"You're serious?" he said, voice low. "After everything your friends did? After I dragged myself back here—twice—trying to fix it? You're turning me down?"
I nodded. "Yes."
He laughed once—short, bitter, ugly. Stood up so fast the chair scraped back.
"Fine," he spat. "You want someone who 'chooses you'? Good fucking luck, Blossom. You're dying. You're a walking corpse with tubes and monitors and a heart that might stop if someone breathes on you too hard. Who the hell is going to choose that? You think anyone's going to want to fuck a girl who might die mid-thrust? You're pathetic. Clinging to some fantasy that someone's going to fall in love with a skeleton in a hospital bed. Wake up. No one's coming. Especially not for you."
The words sliced—cruel, vicious, final.
The girls gasped.
"Eliot—" Camila started, horrified.
But he wasn't done.
"You're not worth it," he snarled. "Not anymore. You never were. Just a sad, sick little virgin who thinks someone's gonna swoop in and save her with a pity fuck before she croaks."
The door opened.
Kieran stepped in—chart in hand—then froze.
He saw Eliot standing over me, face twisted in rage. Heard every venomous word. Saw my tear-streaked cheeks, the way my hands shook in the blanket.
His eyes went black—pure, lethal fury.
In two strides he crossed the room.
Eliot turned.
Kieran didn't speak.
He grabbed Eliot by the collar of his shirt—fast, hard—yanked him forward, and drove his fist into Eliot's jaw with a sickening crack.
Eliot staggered back, hand flying to his face, blood already trickling from his split lip.
The girls screamed.
"Get the fuck out," Kieran said—voice low, deadly calm. "And if I ever see you near her again, I won't stop at one punch."
Eliot stared—stunned, blood dripping down his chin—then scrambled backward, nearly tripping over the chair.
"You—you can't—" he stammered.
"Out," Kieran repeated. "Now."
Eliot looked at the girls—wild-eyed—then at me. Something flickered in his expression—shame, maybe, or just fear—before he bolted. The door slammed behind him.
Silence.
The girls stared—wide-eyed, frozen.
Kieran stood there a second—chest rising and falling hard, knuckles red. Then he exhaled slowly, visibly forcing himself calm.
He turned to me.
Crossed to the bed. Lowered the rail. Sat on the edge.
His hand—still trembling slightly—found mine.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
I nodded—tears still falling. "He… he said—"
"I heard," Kieran said. Voice low, dangerous edge still there. "He's wrong. You're not pathetic. You're not a corpse. You're alive. You're beautiful. And you're worth everything."
He brushed my tears away—thumb gentle now, careful of his split skin.
The girls shifted—awkward, guilty.
"Doctor…" Camila started, voice shaking. "We didn't know he'd—"
"I know," Kieran cut in. "But he's gone. And he's not coming back."
They nodded—quiet, chastened .