Chapter 4

“Read to me,” Chris said. His voice was still a little rough from the breathing tube, but it had the kind of deep timbre that made people stop mid-sentence. Clarisa almost dropped the book she had been holding. “You should be resting,” she said, smiling shyly.

“I rest too much,” he murmured. “My head hurts less when you talk to me. please Read to me.”

She opened the paperback she kept on the shelf beside his bed—a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. “All right,” she said, settling in the chair near his bedside. “But don’t blame me if you fall asleep.”

“Then read something worth staying awake for.”

She chuckled and began softly, the steady beeps of the monitor keeping rhythm with her voice. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of rain from the open window vent filled the room. The room’s white light reflected off the machines and tubing. Chris watched her, his eyes half-closed, tracing the movement of her mouth as if he could taste each words she said, and all he thought about was how kissable her lips looked.

He interrupted her once. “You sound different when you read, like you belong somewhere else than here.”

She lowered the book. “Maybe I do.”

“What did you want to be, before becoming a nurse?” he asked.

“A teacher.” She smiled faintly. “Life decided otherwise.”

“You would have been good at it,” he said, almost to himself.

She looked away, suddenly aware of how intimate this small room felt. “You should sleep now.”

“Not yet,” he whispered. “It’s the only time it’s quiet in here. The only time I forget I don’t remember my life.”

Something in his tone made her chest ache. She closed the book, resting it on her lap. “You’re getting stronger every day, Chris. The rest will come.”

“Promise?” he asked.

Clarisa hesitated, then nodded. “Promise.”

Later that afternoon, Doctor Martins cornered her in the hallway. He wore his usual neutral smile, but his eyes were sharper than usual. “Nurse Thomas, a moment?”

She followed him into the break room. The hum of the vending machine filled the silence.

“You’ve been with Mr. Vale for most of your shifts,” Martins began. “He is improving physically, but mentally, he is still delicate. We don’t want him forming dependencies that will make his recovery harder.”

Clarisa crossed her arms. “You’re saying I’m a dependency.”

“I’m saying you are human,” he replied. “You care. That’s not a flaw. But he’s attaching to you. Deeply. When memory returns, that attachment might not survive the transition.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But if leaving him alone sends him backward....... ”

“Then don’t leave him alone okay. But still dear, just remember why you are there.” Martins’ gaze softened. “I trust you, Clarisa. But draw the line before he can’t.”

She nodded. But as she walked back down the hallway, her hands trembled. The smell of coffee from the nurses’ station, the rush of footsteps, all of it faded under the weight of his words.

That evening, when her shift ended, Rowell was waiting in the staff locker room. He was perched on the counter, scrolling through his phone, shoes untied. “So,” he said, grinning. “How is your billionaire boyfriend?”

“He’s not my........” Clarisa stopped mid-protest. “He’s my patient.”

“Uh-huh. Your patient who asks for you every hour, whose pulse calms when you’re in the room. I’ve seen the charts.”

Clarisa sighed. “Comon Rowell don't be like that, He is lost okay. I am the only familiar thing he has now."

Rowell hopped down. “I get it, Clar. You always find the broken ones. But this one? He is … ValeCorp broken. Like, billionaire-mafia-secrets broken.”

“I don’t care who he is,” Clarisa said, maybe too quickly. “I just want him to heal.”

Rowell studied her. “And when he does?”

Clarisa didn’t answer. The question lingered all the way to the parking lot, through the buzz of city traffic and the torrent of rain as she drove back home.

*********************

Her apartment was small and clean. She reheated the leftovers fried rice she had kept in her refrigerator while scrolling past the endless news cycle on her phone...... CHRIS VALE IN CRITICAL CONDITION, MYSTERY WOMAN AT HIS BEDSIDE? she hissed at the headline and turned off her phone before her stomach could twist tighter.

After eating her dinner of leftover fried rice, she took a hot shower to warm herself before slumping on her bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, those bewildered gray eyes, the scar near his temple, the way he whispered her name like it meant safety and like he had known her all his life.

She didn’t like the warmth that thought gave to her. By dawn, she had given up trying to sleep. She showered, dressed, and drove through the mist-coated city back to the hospital, telling herself it was professionalism, not longing. Besides it was against her work ethics and she would never think of a patient that way.

The drive to the hospital helped her ease her mind a bit. When she arrived, the first thought was to check up on him, and she did. “Morning,” she said softly as she stepped into his room.

Chris was sitting up on the hospital bed staring out the window at the pale sunrise. He turned at the sound of her voice, a faint smile formed across his lips. “I thought your shift ended and you had left.”

“I told you I’d be back,” she replied, setting her bag down.

“I dreamt about you,” he said, smiling sheepishly at her.

She froze halfway to check the monitor. “Dreams aren’t reliable.” she tried to convince him.

“Maybe. But it felt so real. You were standing in a kitchen cooking a meal, you were singing and I was standing right beside you.”

She blinked, startled. “I don’t sing.”

He tilted his head. “You used to.”

She laughed softly “That’s not possible.”

“Then maybe I’m remembering someone else who looked like you,” he said, but there was a strange certainty in his tone that made her heart skip. Clarisa checked his pulse, his temperature with busy hands, steady motions. “You are improving. That’s what matters.”

He watched her, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You always change the subject when you don’t want to talk about yourself.” She looked up, surprised. “How would you know that?”

He shrugged weakly. “Guess I am learning about you everyday.”

**********************************

Hours passed quietly. She fed him soup, coaxed him through physical therapy movements, read more of Monte Cristo to him. At one point he tried to joke, he said something about revenge and second chances, but his voice cracked halfway through and he looked away, embarrassed. She touched his arm lightly.

“It’s okay. You will get your strength back.”

He turned his hand so that their fingers almost brushed. “You make me want to.”

Her heart stumbled. She pulled back, fumbling with the chart. “That’s the medication talking.”

“Then I hope they never stop giving it to me,” he said with a tired grin.

Clarisa exhaled a shaky laugh. “You’re impossible.”

By evening, the ward quieted. The nurses dimmed lights, machines hummed softly. Clarisa sat beside him, the book open again. She read until her throat felt dry.

“You should rest,” she said, closing the book.

“So should you,” he replied. “When do you even go home?”

She smiled faintly. “Home’s overrated.”

“That’s not true. Home’s where you stop pretending.” His eyelids drooped, the sedative pulling him under. “Stay… just a while.”

She hesitated a bit. Then she pulled the blanket higher over his chest and sat back in the chair, watching his breathing even out. The city lights flickered against the window, casting soft gold patterns over the white sheets.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Rowell: You there again? Be careful, Clar. Don’t lose yourself.

Clarisa silenced it. She wasn’t losing herself, she told herself. She was helping someone find his way back. But even she didn’t believe it.

Later, after midnight, she stretched as she stood up, her joints aching. She meant to leave. Instead, she reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and froze.

Chris’s hand moved suddenly, catching hers. His eyes opened, unfocused but intent. “Clarisa,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” she said, her pulse racing.

He blinked slowly, as if seeing her for the first time again. “Don’t go. I can’t… when you’re gone, it’s dark.”

Her throat tightened. “You’re safe. You need to sleep.”

His fingers loosened, but he didn’t let go completely. “I’ll remember,” he murmured. “I’ll remember you.” The words hit her harder than they should have. She sank back into the chair, meaning to stay only until his breathing steadied.

She must have drifted off to sleep because when she woke up it was morning already. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, she heard the soft beep of monitors, the hum of machines. Then she felt it: a warm weight against her hand.

She looked down and saw Chris’s fingers were intertwined with hers, firmly, as if afraid she would slip away. His eyes were still closed, his expression peaceful. But then his lips moved.

“Clarisa,” he breathed. “My Clarisa.”

Her heart stopped. The sound of his voice wasn’t the uncertain plea of confusion. It was familiar, possessive and certain as if she belonged to him.

She stared at him, unable to move, her heart racing wildly. Had he regained his memory? Or was he dreaming something she didn’t understand, she didn't know what to do.?

Before she could pull her hand free, his thumb brushed the back of her palm, slow, deliberate. A flicker of memory, or it may have been recognition passed across his sleeping face.

Outside, morning light spilled through the blinds, turning the white room gold. Clarisa sat frozen, caught between the warmth of his hand and the chill that crept up her spine.