YOU ARE MY LIGHT

CHAPTER 12 : THE BATTLEFIELD

The transition was violent. One moment, I was bathed in the soft yellow glow of a quiet restaurant, feeling the warmth of Vincent’s hand. The next, I was thrust into a symphony of screaming sirens and the blinding, clinical white of the emergency bay.

The scent of grilled meat was replaced by the suffocating metallic tang of blood and the damp smell of wet asphalt.

As we stepped out of the car, Vincent transformed. He didn't just walk; he commanded. He rolled up his sleeves, his jaw set in a hard line. He was no longer the man who missed his father; he was a god of the ER.

“Juliet,” he said, his pace so aggressive that his one step felt like five of mine. I had to sprint to keep up, my dinner heels clicking like gunfire against the pavement.

“Yes, sir!” I called out, my adrenaline masking the ache in my feet.

"To work," he said, pointing at the patients who needed to be tagged.

The lobby was flooded. It looked like a war zone. I grabbed a pack of triage tags, my fingers trembling only for a second before my training took over. I moved through the rows of stretchers like a ghost in a white dress.

“Stay with me,” I whispered to a young man in a torn suit, clipping a Red tag to his wrist. “Deep breaths. Help is right here.”

I ran from lane to lane, my "defensive gown" fluttering around my ankles. Black for the silent ones—a heavy weight in my chest every time I reached for that color. Yellow for the lucky ones. I spent seconds consoling a sobbing woman, squeezing her hand just long enough to ground her before sprinting to find a blanket for a shivering child.

“Juliet, I’m so sorry you’re here after your shift,” a nurse shouted over the noise.

“It’s okay! It’s my job!” I yelled back, hauling a heavy oxygen tank toward a critical patient.

“But your shoes. I think you should change your shoes, you’re bleeding!” she pointed out.

I looked down. My heels were ruined, the straps digging into my skin, but I shook my head. “Later. Let’s finish this first,” I said, “You can go.”

“I’ll find another nurse to help,” she insisted, nodding.

I turned to dash toward the supply room, but I slammed into a solid wall of a chest. Mr. Vincent. He wasn't looking at the chaos; he was looking at me. In his hands, he held a pair of hospital slippers and a white lab coat.

“Seems like you have a habit of bumping into me,” he said, his voice a low anchor in the storm. He bent down, ignoring the blood on the floor, and placed the slippers at my feet. “Take these. You can’t save lives if you can’t walk.”

“Thank you,” I breathed, sliding into the rubber soles. The relief was instant. I threw the coat over my gown, and for a second, our eyes locked—a silent promise to survive the night. He nodded, and I ran back to the tagging side. Finally, we finished tagging all the patients. Vincent appeared beside me. “Juliet, you’re done. Join me in surgery,” he said. “Okay,” I replied, following him.

The OR was a blur of high-stakes tension. For hours, the only sounds were the steady beep-beep of heart monitors and the sharp snap of latex gloves. I was Vincent’s shadow. I anticipated every move, handing him the scalpel, the sutures, the gauze before he could even ask.

Once, as I passed him a clamp, our fingers brushed. His hand felt steady and cool, while mine was burning with feverish energy.

For a brief second, I realized we worked well together—without words.

I looked at him through his surgical mask, seeing the sweat on his brow, and felt a surge of pride. We were a team.

When the sun finally began to bleed through the high windows, the chaos ebbed. I staggered out of the final surgery, my back screaming. I found a spot against the cool hallway wall and let myself slide down to the floor, my head thumping against the metal.

I eventually stood to wash the grime off at the scrub sink. Vincent arrived at the same time. As we both reached for the sensor, our hands collided under the cold light.

My heart did a frantic somersault. It’s just the caffeine, I told myself.

He stepped back, letting me go first. But my hands were shaking so hard from exhaustion that I fumbled with the high-pressure faucet. Water blasted out, spraying my face, my hair, and my coat.

I gasped, blinded. Suddenly, a warm presence loomed behind me. Vincent leaned over my shoulder, his chest nearly touching my back, his arm reaching past my ear to kill the valve. Water splashed over his expensive shirt, soaking him, but he didn't flinch.

I turned, wiping my eyes, to find him inches away. He was dripping wet, his hair messy, and he looked… human. He looked at his soaked sleeves, then at my dripping nose, and he started to laugh.

It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I laughed too, the tension of the night breaking. He’s so handsome when he’s messy, I thought, quickly looking away. I smelled myself—definitely reeking of different types of blood—but didn’t care. I headed to my desk, exhausted, my head resting on my arms. I didn't mean to sleep, but the darkness claimed me.

I woke to a soft rustle. Something warm and heavy was being draped over my shoulders. I bolted upright.

Vincent was there, his hand still on the collar of the jacket he’d just put on me. He pulled back, looking almost embarrassed.

“I went to buy something for you,” he said, handing me a small bag.

Inside was hot coffee and a bar of dark chocolate. “You really believe sugar fixes everything?” I teased weakly. “You have done well,” he said.

“It’s my job,” I said softly. “Drink it and get some rest.” I rested a little, letting my head sink into the chair. After a few minutes, I stepped outside to see what was happening. Everything felt… calmer, almost settled. “Juliet, you’re still around?” a nurse asked with a smile. I returned it. “Yes… please, where is Mr. Vincent?” I asked.

“He’s in the emergency room,” she said. My heart skipped. I hurried inside and spotted him emerging from the chaos, calm and composed as ever.

I reached for him. “I can see you rested,” he said, his eyes scanning my face. “Your eyes are already showing it." I rushed to wipe my face, embarrassed. “You went back into surgery?" I asked “Yes,” he replied, almost casually.

“I… you should have woken me up,” I said, guilt creeping in.

"You were sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb you,” he mumbled. He shook his head slightly, smiling faintly. “It wasn’t a serious case. I didn’t want to wake you.” He started walking toward his office, but I tried to speak, only for him to cut me off with a playful grin. "A nurse helped me. it’s okay, Juliet. You can go home now—you’ve tired yourself out. It wasn’t even your shift.” I laughed a little, exhausted but amused. “It’s not even yours either,” I teased, remembering how he had stayed all night helping others. “I learned from you,” I said jokingly, a rare soft smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, you should go home. Go home, Juliet. You’ve worked through the night in a dinner dress. That’s enough heroics for one day,” he said, gently pushing me toward the exit. I stepped outside, heart still racing, exhausted, but smiling at the quiet intimacy of the moment.

I laughed, looking up at him. “I’m just following your lead, sir.”

He gave me a playful push toward the glass doors. I waved, feeling a glow in my chest that made me feel invincible. Finally, I stepped out into the cool morning air, standing at the curb to wait for a taxi. My body was screaming for a bed, but my heart was still racing from the night I’d shared with Vincent. Suddenly, the familiar, high-pitched wail of a siren cut through the air. Another ambulance skidded into the emergency bay, its tires screeching. My instincts moved faster than my exhaustion. Before I could even think about the taxi, I was running back toward the bay. I grabbed a gurney, pushing it forward with a burst of strength I didn't know I had left. "I've got it!" I shouted to the paramedics as the back doors swung open. I didn't even look at the patient's face. My mind was in autopilot mode—check the pulse, check the breathing, keep the bed moving. We sprinted through the automatic doors and into the triage area. "Vitals are stable. It looks like minor lacerations and alcohol intoxication," the paramedic reported. I nodded, starting to reach for a yellow tag. "Okay, let's get him into a bay and—" I stopped. I looked up from the clipboard to the man lying on the stretcher. The smell hit me first—the sour, sickening stench of alcohol. Then, I saw the face. The same face that had haunted my nightmares and shaped the woman I became. The clipboard slipped from my numb fingers, clattering loudly on the sterile floor. It was my father. The one person I had spent my entire life trying to hide from was lying right in front of me. I froze, the air in the hospital suddenly feeling like it had been sucked out of the room. A few feet away, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Polished, expensive shoes clicking on the tile.

"Juliet? I thought I told you to go home," Vincent’s voice called out, sounding confused. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could only stare at the man on the bed, praying the floor would open up and swallow me.