Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 7: Running From Flowers

For several days, Paris didn’t see Liam in the Rehabilitation Unit. Only his bodyguard came by, the soft clack of his polished shoes echoing in the corridor as he delivered toiletries for Lety.

Paris couldn’t explain the storm of emotions inside her. Some part of her wanted to see Liam again; another recoiled. What for? she thought.

“What is with you?” George asked, breaking the buzz of fluorescent lights above the nurses’ station.

“Huh?” Paris blinked, dragging her eyes from the monitor.

George sat beside her at the nurse’s station, a care file in his hand.

“What’s with the frown? You’ve been scowling all morning. And last night—I kept calling, you didn’t answer.” George slid into the chair beside her, the scrape of its legs against the tile sharp in the quiet.

“I was already asleep. I’m tired. I’ve been doing my e-learning after work,” she said, typing noisily, letting the rhythmic clack-clack of the keyboard mask her voice, turning back to the computer. She didn’t want him to see her face; he’d know she was lying.

George leaned closer, lowering his tone. “You’re lying.”

“I am not,” Paris replied.

Because aside from the e-learning that kept her busy, she kept thinking about Liam—and their confrontation in the MS Food Hall about three weeks ago.

Maybe that’s why he isn’t visiting his mom, she wondered. Is he avoiding me?

“Paris, is something wrong?” George asked again. She could never really hide things from him.

“Nothing,” Paris insisted, opening a file and pretending to type progress notes.

“Oh please, Paris, you can’t lie to me,” George said, scribbling.

“I can feel it. Anyway—it’s 11 a.m. I’m going to Lety’s room. Come with me so you can assess her current mobility baseline.” He stood up from the station.

Paris followed George to Lety O’Reilly’s room. Before entering, George knocked on the door, which was already ajar.

“Knock, knock,” George said, stepping inside.

“Oh, hello, Lety! Nice to see you this morning,” he greeted. Lety smiled back.

“Here is my favorite Physio,” Lety said. “Oh, hello there,” she added, glancing at Paris and smiling.

“Hi, Lety. I’ll be assessing your mobility with George today so I can update your care plan,” Paris replied, forcing cheerfulness despite the tension coiling in her chest.

George asked Lety to transfer with her rollator. The rubber tips squeaked against the linoleum floor as she pushed forward.

“Well, Paris, she’s improving. Only needs assistance from one staff now, not two,” George noted.

“That’s wonderful! You did so well, Lety!” Paris said, genuine warmth slipping through.

“This man has been very patient with me,” Lety chuckled, patting George’s shoulder. “And honestly, who wouldn’t be motivated with a physiotherapist this handsome?”

Paris laughed with her, though her voice cracked faintly.

The door hinges creaked.

“I see you’re having lovely conversations with the staff, Mom.”

Paris stiffened. Liam’s voice—low, commanding—rolled through the room like a current. His leather shoes struck the floor with deliberate weight as he entered, carrying shopping bags and flowers.

George couldn’t help blushing. He sidled closer to his sister.

Liam’s presence was intimidating—authoritative. And again, his signature scent filled the room.

“Liam!” Lety’s tone lifted, almost musical. “I missed you! Where have you been, dear?”

“Liam!” Lety’s tone lifted, almost musical. “I missed you! Where have you been, dear?”

“Just got back from England last night. I had to check on one of my projects. Took the chopper this morning so I could come straight here,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. His cologne drifted through the room—clean, woodsy, distinct. Paris’s throat tightened at the scent.

Then Liam extended the bouquet. Toward her.

Paris’s breath caught. The paper around the stems crinkled loudly in the silence. “For… me?” she asked softly.

“Sorry, nurse,” Liam said smoothly. “There’s a vase behind you. Could you put these in water for Mom?” His smirk curved like a blade.

The blood roared in her ears. i***t. Why would I think they were for me?

“Okay, I’ll help her, Liam,” George chimed in, taking the bouquet—and widening his eyes at Paris.

Paris felt rooted to the spot. Am I insane, thinking the flowers were for me? Heat rushed to her cheeks, embarrassment flaring until her skin prickled. God, I want the floor to swallow me.

After she and George sorted it, Paris set the vase on the table, arranging the blooms—chrysanthemums, carnations, and late autumn roses. Their mingled scents drifted softly through the room, a reminder that even in the fading season, beauty clung stubbornly to life.

“So, George—what’s the update on Mom’s mobility?” Liam asked, turning away.

“She’s improving. She can now be assisted by one staff instead of two. Pain meds will help her transfer more smoothly. Paris will update her care plan today,” George reported crisply, though his voice carried a shade too much enthusiasm.

His cheeks were tinged pink, his smile lingering longer than necessary as his eyes flicked toward Liam.

Paris face-palmed inwardly. You’re so obvious, George, she thought, fighting the urge to groan out loud.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Liam said, nodding.

Paris felt tongue-tied. She just wanted to get out of the room.

Lety’s laugh bubbled again. “See, Liam? These two are wonderful. Patient, kind… and look at them—so good-looking too.”

Paris flushed. She could hear the quickened thump-thump of her pulse in her ears.

Another knock. Claude entered. “Sorry to disturb. Just need to grab the empty cup.”

“Oh, Claudio! Come in! We were just telling Liam how good the staff are here. I was saying they’re kind—and good-looking too. Put yourself on the list of the kind ones,” Lety said, smiling and glancing at Liam, whose face remained serious.

“Ay, that’s right—especially your nurse Paris. She’s very kind,” Claude said, nodding toward Paris.

“By the way, Paris, the son of the patient in Room 54 left a wee card for you at the station—a thank-you card—and some chocolates,” he added, grinning broadly.

“None for me?” George joked.

Claude shook his head with a laugh. “It said, ‘for the nurse.’”

Lety and Claude laughed.

“My sister always has goodies after work. Yesterday she got another box of chocolates,” George grumbled playfully.

“Because I worked hard?” Paris shot him a look.

She swatted his arm. “You can have the chocolates later, George.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Paris saw Liam glance at George’s badge: George Fajardo.

“So… you’re siblings?” Liam asked slowly, his tone unreadable.

“Yes—unfortunately,” George quipped, flashing a grin. Paris smacked his arm again, but he only leaned back smugly. “Well, half-siblings, technically. Same dad, different moms. Both gorgeous, though—obviously.”

Lety burst into laughter. “At least you’re honest!”

“Yeah, I’m half-Filipino, half-British,” George went on, puffing his chest as if he were announcing it at a pageant. “Paris, though—she’s full Filipina. She stayed here longer, hopping between the Philippines and the UK for a while. But now…” He leaned toward Liam conspiratorially. “Now she’s stuck with me forever. Poor thing.”

Paris groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You talk too much.”

George only grinned wider. “You love me anyway, big sis.”

Liam’s brows rose slightly. His face was calm, unreadable, but his eyes lingered on Paris a fraction too long—curious, weighing, searching.

Her pulse jumped. His silence pressed heavier than words, his presence filling the room like a low hum she couldn’t escape.

“Well, we’ve got a good team on the floor,” Claude chimed in proudly, breaking the moment.

“I agree,” Lety said, smiling.

Just then, a buzzer rang sharply in the corridor. The sound jolted Paris like an alarm inside her chest.

“I’ll get it!” Paris blurted, rushing for the door. Her footsteps echoed down the hall, her heart pounding in time with them. She knew she wasn’t running for the buzzer. She was running from him.

And faintly, from a distant radio at the nurses’ station, a chorus spilled out—catching her ears like a cruel echo:

🎜 Run just as fast as I can, to the middle of nowhere,

To the middle of my frustrated fears… 🎜