Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 11:Distractions

After work, Paris headed out the side entrance of Malone Care Centre, keys clutched in her hand. The staff car park was nearly deserted, only a few lamplights humming above empty rows. She only needed to grab the small wrapped gift from her little hatchback—a present for Demi, a staff nurse who was on night shift and leaving soon for maternity—and give it to her before heading home.

But when she rounded the corner, she froze.

Her little car sat where she’d left it… but beside it, gleaming like a predator at rest, was an Aston Martin. And leaning against the hood, arms folded as though the night itself bent to his pace, was Liam O’Reilly.

Paris’s steps faltered. The sight made her grip her bag tighter. The contrast was cruel—his polished world parked inches from her battered hatchback, gleaming steel against chipped paint.

She forced her voice steady. “Why are you parked beside me? The whole lot’s empty.”

Liam’s gaze flicked toward her, cool and unreadable. “Maybe I didn’t want empty.”

Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. She hugged the strap closer across her chest. “Oh, I forgot. You own this place. You always get what you want.” Her voice caught, sharper now. “Including my number. How did you even get it?”

His mouth curved, faint and dangerous. “Ah. So, you got it.”

“Of course, I got it.” Her throat tightened. “That’s the problem. I never gave it to you, Liam. How did you even—” She broke off, the answer landing heavy as lead. Her stomach turned. “It was HR, wasn’t it? You went through HR.”

He didn’t deny it. He just watched her, eyes steady. “Paris. You think I need you to hand me a number when I sit on half the investors’ seats in this place? HR isn’t exactly a wall I can’t climb.”

Her chest burned. “So you went digging.”

“I asked,” he corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

“Don’t twist this.” Her voice rose despite herself, drawing a glance from a carer cutting across the lot. Paris dropped her tone quickly, mortified. “That’s a violation, Liam. You can’t just decide that boundaries don’t apply to you.”

He pushed off the car, closing the space between them in slow, deliberate steps. Not predatory—worse. Inevitable. “Boundaries? You think I don’t know what those are?” His jaw flexed. “I’ve built my whole life on them. On keeping people exactly where I want them. But you—” His voice cracked low, raw. “You walked in and smashed every one I had left.”

Paris shook her head, pulse hammering. “That doesn’t give you the right to smash mine. I can’t afford this, Liam. I don’t want to be another story whispered around the nurses’ station. People already gossip enough in there. I won’t be the next headline because the billionaire investor is hanging around the car park waiting for me.”

The words struck him. For a moment, his composure faltered. Then he exhaled, rougher than intended. “You’re right.”

The admission stunned her more than the text had.

He dragged a hand through his hair, then looked back at her with a steadiness that pinned her where she stood. “I shouldn’t have done it like that. But I wasn’t about to sit in silence, Paris. Not after the slap. Not after… everything.”

Her breath caught. The memory of her palm against his cheek hung between them, sharp as static.

“Next time,” she said carefully, “you ask. And you remember I have a job here. A reputation. I don’t want your shadow following me through the corridors.”

He nodded once, slow, like a vow. “Next time.”

But the corner of his mouth curved, dark and knowing. “Though you and I both know, Paris… there will always be a next time.”

Her chest constricted, her hands tightening around the strap of her bag. She wanted to hate him for his arrogance. She wanted to hate herself for the way her heart leapt anyway.

The automatic doors hissed open behind her. A nurse stepped out with a clipboard, pausing just long enough to notice their closeness. Paris turned quickly, pulse spiking at the thought of gossip sparking before she could even leave the lot.

“I have to go,” she said, stepping back, her voice firm now.

This time, she walked away first—aware of the eyes behind her, aware that nothing was invisible when Liam O’Reilly wanted it.

By the next morning, Paris could feel it.

It wasn’t obvious—no one came right out and said anything—but the shift had changed. Conversations paused when she walked into the staff room. Two carers at the sink stifled laughter, their eyes flicking toward her before they ducked back to rinsing mugs. At the noticeboard, one of the domestic staff coughed into his fist, muttering something she didn’t quite catch—except for the name O’Reilly.

Her stomach sank.

She grabbed her notes and headed for the ward, hoping the routine of meds and obs would anchor her. But even there, it lingered. A patient’s relative raised her brows knowingly when Liam strode past to his mother’s room, expensive shoes clicking against the linoleum. One of the junior nurses nudged another and whispered too loudly, “See? He’s here again. Guess he’s not just visiting Mrs. O’Reilly.”

Paris froze mid-step, her tray rattling against the trolley. Heat rushed to her face, but she forced her voice to stay even. “Focus on your patients,” she said without turning. “Not on me.”

The girls giggled nervously, pretending to be busy with charts, but the damage was done.

By lunchtime, the whispers had thickened.

She sat in the cramped break room, trying to eat her sandwich, but every laugh, every side glance dug under her skin. Her phone buzzed against the table, Liam’s name flashing across the screen. She didn’t touch it. She couldn’t. Not here.

“Paris,” a colleague said brightly, dropping into the chair across from her. Too bright. “How’s your day going? Eventful?”

Paris met her eyes, reading the undertone. Her pulse spiked, but she smiled tightly, refusing to feed it. “Busy, as always.” She stood, dumping her half-eaten sandwich in the bin. “Excuse me.”

She escaped into the corridor, breathing sharply in her throat. This was exactly what she’d told Liam she couldn’t afford—her name caught in the care centre’s whisper network, her professionalism reduced to gossip.

And still, her phone buzzed again in her pocket.

By Friday, the gossip had become unbearable. Every time Liam appeared in the corridor, Paris could feel eyes sliding to her. Every smile she gave a patient, every word she exchanged with a colleague seemed under inspection, measured, dissected.

She needed it to stop.

So when Raphael appeared at the staff station, carrying two cups of coffee and his easy grin, she didn’t hesitate.

“Paris,” he said, offering her the cup. “Flat white. Extra hot. Don’t say I never pay my debts.”

A laugh rose in her throat, too sharp, too practiced. “You remembered.” She took the cup and let her fingers brush his—not enough for intimacy, just enough for an audience.

Two carers at the desk exchanged a look. One raised her brows. The other smirked. Paris saw it, and for once, she didn’t shrink from it.

She leaned in slightly, keeping her tone light. “So, tour guide… when’s our next map-reading session?”

Raphael chuckled, playing along without missing a beat. “This weekend, if you’re free. Belfast has more than enough coffee shops to keep us busy.”

“Maybe I am,” she said. And she smiled, wide enough for anyone watching to notice.

It worked. By the afternoon, whispers had shifted. Paris and Raphael. The name O’Reilly wasn’t on anyone’s tongue. The tension eased. Nurses teased her gently in the break room, but it was different now—lighter, almost approving.

“Raphael’s a good one,” one of them said with a grin. “And single, thank God. About time, Paris.”

Paris laughed it off, even as something twisted in her chest.

That weekend became another coffee. Then lunch after shift. Then there was a film night with a small group of staff, where Raphael sat close enough to hand her the popcorn, but not too close to scare her off. By mid-November, their names were linked naturally as sugar and cream.

Paris and Raphael.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t dangerous. It was easy.

And that was the point.

With Raphael, she could laugh, walk down the corridor without hearing her name hissed behind her back, sit in the break room without feeling eyes measuring every move. The whispers had cooled. The storm had passed.

But every time Liam’s name lit her phone, her chest tightened. She ignored the messages, pushed them into silence. Because here, with Raphael, she wasn’t a rumor.

She was just… Paris.

And for now, that was enough.