Sparked
580 Words
Martha sipped her morning coffee slowly, staring out the window of the small kitchen. The air outside was misty, and everything felt… off.
She hadn’t told John about the men. She didn’t want drama. Or worse, violence.
But something in her gut told her John knew. Somehow.
The way he looked at her last night—like he was searching for something she hadn’t said. Like he already knew.
She shook the thought away. Maybe it was just in her head.
“Morning, dear,” said Mrs. Whitmore, cheerfully walking in with her basket of homegrown tomatoes. “You and your husband sleeping in today?” Her smile was warm as always.
Martha smiled politely. “He’s still upstairs.”
“You kids… young love is something else.” She giggled, walking away.
Martha sighed. “Young lie, more like it,” she muttered.
At the hospital, everything seemed normal—until lunchtime.
She was just about to head to the cafeteria with Nina when she saw them.
The three bikers.
Standing outside the hospital entrance. No bikes, no bravado. Just silence.
One of them stepped forward, head lowered. His eye was swollen. His lip slightly bruised.
“Ma’am,” he said stiffly, “We came to apologize. For earlier. We were drunk and out of line.”
Martha blinked. “Excuse me?”
“We’re sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Before she could respond, they walked away.
Nina appeared behind her with wide eyes. “Wait… those guys? Weren’t they the ones from the alley the other day?”
“How do you know about that?” Martha whispered.
“You kidding? It’s all over our intern group chat. That new guy, Marco, saw the whole thing. But… how did they know where you work?”
Martha didn’t answer.
She was still staring at their backs as they disappeared down the street.
That night, dinner at the Whitmore house was quiet. John barely said a word.
After finishing his plate, he stood and cleared the table before she could.
“You okay?” Martha finally asked him, walking up behind him in the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Did you… know about those guys?”
John didn’t turn around. “What guys?”
Martha hesitated. “Forget it.”
He washed the last plate and set it down, drying his hands with a towel.
“I’m not someone you should thank,” he said quietly. “Whatever happened—if it did—I didn’t do it for you.”
Martha stared at his back. “Then who did you do it for?”
Silence.
John turned, but his expression was unreadable. “Go to sleep early tonight. Hospital’s busy these days.”
Martha wanted to say more. She wanted to say thank you. Or I was scared. Or I’m glad you were there, even if you won’t admit it.
But instead, she just nodded and walked away.
Later that night, she woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window.
John was sitting on the couch, half in shadow, the dim lamp casting a soft light over his face.
He looked… lost.
Without thinking, she grabbed the blanket from her room, walked over, and draped it over his shoulders.
He glanced at her, surprised.
“You’ll catch a cold,” she whispered.
John didn’t reply. But for the first time, he didn’t push her away either.
And that silence said more than any words.
- Writer
