Chapter-6 The Pulse
1125 Words
The following weeks in Sto. Domingo were an exercise in uneasy equilibrium. Nicko had retreated into the shadows of his hilltop fortress, yet his presence was everywhere—in the brand-new medical monitors at the campus lab, the silent black car that trailed a block behind Elena as she walked to school, and the steady supply of specialized nutrition shakes delivered to her Lola's doorstep.
But the silence between them broke on a Tuesday afternoon. Elena was sitting on the roots of the old mango tree, her nursing bag heavy with textbooks on the human cardiovascular system.
"The heart is just a pump, Elena. Why are you staring at it like it’s a riddle?"
She didn't jump. She had learned to recognize the sound of his footsteps—heavy, purposeful, and somehow comforting. Nicko stood above her, his expensive suit jacket draped over one arm, his tie loosened. He looked like a man who had been fighting a war all day and had finally come home to the only neutral territory he knew.
"It is a riddle," Elena replied, not looking up from her book. "It beats 100,000 times a day, and we don't even tell it to. It just knows. It’s the only thing in the world that doesn't lie."
Nicko sat down beside her on the dirt, ignoring the ruin of his designer trousers. For a moment, the ten years of distance seemed to evaporate. They weren't a billionaire and a student; they were just two people under a tree.
The Ten-Year Gap
"Tell me one thing," Nicko said, looking out at the plaza. "One thing you did in those ten years that had nothing to do with nursing or your Lola."
Elena paused. She realized how small her world had become. "I used to go to the bridge at the edge of town. Every Sunday after mass. I’d throw stones into the water and imagine they were messages."
"What did the messages say?"
"Usually? 'Where are you?' or 'Are you eating well?'" She laughed softly, a bittersweet sound. "Stupid things. What about you? Did you have a life outside of... whatever it is you do now?"
Nicko leaned back against the bark. "I lived in a penthouse in Makati that felt like a museum. I had everything, Elena. I could buy the whole town of Sto. Domingo ten times over. But I spent my nights reading medical journals."
Elena turned to him, surprised. "Medical journals? Why?"
"Because I knew you were studying them. I wanted to know the language you were speaking. I wanted to understand the things that made your eyes light up." He reached out and traced the diagram of the heart in her book. "I know about Systole and Diastole. I know about the Sinoatrial node. I learned it all just so I wouldn't feel so far away from you."
The Healer’s Touch
A sudden, sharp movement made Nicko hiss in pain. He clutched his side, his face contorting.
"Nicko? What's wrong?" Elena’s professional instincts took over. She dropped her book and moved closer.
"It's nothing. Just a... business disagreement from last night."
"Let me see."
"Elena, no—"
"I am a nurse, Nicko. Let me see."
Reluctantly, he unbuttoned the side of his shirt. Elena gasped. There was a jagged, angry laceration along his ribs—not from a knife, but something blunter, like a metal pipe. It had been stitched poorly, and the skin around it was red and hot to the touch.
"Who did this to you?" she whispered, her fingers hovering just above the wound.
"It doesn't matter. I have doctors for this."
"Your doctors did a terrible job. It’s starting to get infected."
She reached into her bag. Because of her Lola’s needs, she always carried a basic medical kit—betadine, sterile gauze, and a local antibiotic. She didn't ask for permission this time. She began to clean the wound, her movements precise and gentle.As she worked, she felt his gaze on her. The silence was no longer heavy; it was intimate. The distance of ten years was being bridged by the simple act of care.
"You're good at this," he said, his voice dropping to a low vibrate.
"I had to be," she murmured. "When you left, everything started breaking. I had to learn how to fix things."
"I'm sorry I wasn't here to help you carry it," he said. It was the first time he had used the word sorry without a layer of sarcasm.
Elena looked up, her face inches from his. She could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the tiny scar on his lip from a childhood fall. She realized that despite the money and the power, he was still the boy who was afraid of the dark—he had just learned to hide in it.
The Shared Heartbeat
She finished bandaging his side, her hand lingering on his chest to check his respiratory rate. Under her palm, his heart was thundering. It wasn't the steady, calm rhythm of a businessman. It was the frantic, desperate beat of the boy under the mango tree.
"Nicko," she breathed.
He reached up, covering her hand with his own, pressing it harder against his chest. "See? I told you. The heart doesn't lie."
For a long minute, they stayed like that—connected by a heartbeat and ten years of unspoken grief. The sun began to set, casting the plaza in a golden, tragic light. They were bonding, finding the pieces of their childhood in the wreckage of their adult lives.
But the moment was shattered by the shrill ring of Nicko’s phone. He looked at the screen, and the warmth in his eyes died instantly, replaced by the cold, obsidian mask.
"The Senator," he said, standing up and buttoning his shirt. The wall was back up. The boy was gone. "I have to go."
"Nicko, wait—the infection—"
"Take the antibiotics yourself, Elena," he said, handing her a thick envelope he pulled from his pocket. "The Senator’s son is being transferred to your hospital tomorrow for a minor procedure. He requested the top student for the recovery ward."
Elena felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "You did this? You put me in his path?"
"No," Nicko said, his voice like ice. "He put you in his path to get to me. Be careful tomorrow, Elena. The heart might not lie, but the people who carry them do."
- Writer
