The hospital room was sterile, a harsh contrast to the warm, salty air of the alley. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as Martin sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt slightly torn from the scuffle. A couple of bruises had already started to darken around his jaw, but it was the cut on his lip that bothered him most.
Kierra stood by the door, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She hadn't been sure if bringing him to the hospital was the right thing, but now that they were here, the soft hum of machines and the smell of antiseptic made her feel strangely out of place.
"What's your problem?" Martin muttered, glancing up at her as the nurse finished patching him up. "I told you, I don't need a damn hospital."
"You were bleeding, Martin," she shot back, her voice sharp. "It's not about what you want. You got hurt. Let me at least make sure you're not going to pass out from blood loss or something."
He grumbled something under his breath, clearly not thrilled about the idea of needing her help. But deep down, there was a flicker of relief. He just wouldn't admit it. Not to her. Not to himself.
As the nurse left, Kierra's gaze shifted to the counter, where the bill for the medical treatment sat. A few hundred dollars, probably more than Martin had ever seen in a single day, and much less than she would ever think twice about.
"Here," Kierra said, pulling her wallet from her bag. "Let me pay for the bills. You don't need to worry about this."
Martin immediately tensed. He shot her a look—one that was almost a mix of disbelief and irritation.
"I'm not some charity case," he snapped, pushing himself off the bed. "I'm fine. I can handle my own mess."
She wasn't surprised by the resistance. But she wasn't about to back down. Not now.
"I'm not treating you like a charity case," she replied, a little more calmly. "I just don't want you to leave here with a bunch of debt because you're too stubborn to let someone help. Besides, you were hurt because of me."
"I told you already," he growled. "I don't need your help. You don't need to throw money at everything, Kierra. You can't buy people's problems away."
The tension in the room thickened, but Kierra was used to this. People in her life had always been too proud to accept help, especially men. And it wasn't just pride—it was ego. It irritated her to no end, but she understood it, even if she didn't like it.
She sighed, putting the wallet back into her bag. "Fine. You want to do this on your own, go ahead. But don't think you're fooling me with all this tough-guy crap."
Martin's eyes flickered for a second, but he recovered quickly, flashing that cocky grin of his.
"Well, if it makes you feel better, I'll make sure to send you a thank-you note when I'm rolling in cash from my big break."
She rolled her eyes, unable to fight the smile that tugged at her lips. "Sure, sure. Just make sure to include a really nice pen when you sign it."
Martin's grin widened, but then he leaned back on the bed, clearly tired. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, the silence stretching between them.
Finally, he broke it, his tone a bit more playful, though still edged with something else. "You know, I was wondering—did you follow me here or something?"
Kierra blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. "What?"
Martin smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. "I mean, you just happened to show up right when things got rough. Not that I'm complaining, but I've got to ask—did you have me on some sort of tracker, princess?"
Kierra's pulse quickened, but she didn't let him see. She stared back at him, pretending to be unaffected, even though her heart was doing something entirely different.
"Maybe I just wanted to make sure you didn't get yourself killed," she said, keeping her voice steady. "And I didn't follow you, if that's what you're asking. But, I mean... if you want to think I did, then go ahead."
She didn't deny it. She didn't admit to it either.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at Martin's lips, his eyes narrowing with an amused glint. He leaned back against the bed, crossing his arms behind his head.
"Well, looks like I'm not the only one with some secrets up their sleeve."
Kierra narrowed her eyes, but there was no anger in her. Just an understanding. They both had their walls. And neither of them was ready to let them down just yet.
"Whatever you say," she replied, the faintest hint of a smirk on her own face. "Just don't get yourself into more trouble. The next time you end up in the ER, I might actually charge you for my services."
Martin chuckled softly, though there was a hint of something deeper beneath his usual bravado. "You wouldn't charge me. You like rescuing people too much."
Kierra's smile faltered for a moment, but she didn't respond. Instead, she turned to grab her bag, making sure to keep her distance—though something inside her was fighting against the urge to step closer.
She wasn't ready for this, but she couldn't walk away. Not now. Not after everything.
She just wasn't sure how much longer either of them could keep pretending.
***
The soft beep of the heart monitor, the steady whoosh of air from the ventilation, and the occasional shuffle of a nurse's footsteps were the only sounds in the room.
Kierra had stayed late into the night, sitting by Martin's bedside, her eyes never leaving his pale face. His usual cocky grin was gone, replaced by the vulnerability she rarely saw. He had always been so… tough—so closed off—but seeing him this way, weak and vulnerable, made something inside her stir.
She had wanted to leave. She had tried to leave, even telling herself she needed to get back to her life, to the relentless demands of the company, to her father, to her brother, to the unending list of people who needed her.
But then there was Martin. His face was too still, too serious in his sleep, as if he was locked away behind some barrier, a side of him he never showed anyone.
"What are you really thinking, Martin Chase?"
She hadn't expected to care this much. It was ridiculous. He wasn't her responsibility. She wasn't here because he was the man who could change her life, or because she had some wild, desperate need to fix him.
She was here because—despite everything—she didn't want him to be alone.
There was a slight shift in his hand, and she instinctively reached out, her fingers brushing his knuckles. He flinched, then groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open.
For a moment, he didn't seem to recognize where he was. His gaze slowly adjusted to the light, then focused on her face.
"What are you still doing here?" His voice was hoarse, strained, but still full of that same gruff charm.
Kierra gave him a faint smile, despite the nagging concern in her chest. "I could ask you the same thing. Do you always get into fights like this?"
"Not always," he muttered, wincing as he shifted his position. "But I like to keep things interesting."
She chuckled, despite herself. "Interesting. Right."
He smirked, his eyes flicking toward her hand still resting on his. "You're not exactly known for being a caretaker."
Kierra shifted uneasily, pulling her hand away as if she had done something wrong. "I'm not," she admitted, looking away. "But I don't want to see anyone—especially you—getting hurt."
He stared at her for a beat, a flicker of something—something like understanding, or maybe something deeper—passing between them. Then, just as quickly, his eyes hardened again, the walls that had always been there snapping back into place.
"Well, you've got an odd way of showing it, princess," he said, his voice teasing but his tone softer than usual.
Before she could respond, there was a soft knock at the door, followed by the nurse coming in to check on Martin, the sound of her clipboard against the counter sharp in the otherwise quiet room.
The nurse gave them both a friendly smile. "You've been here a while, Miss Davidson. Maybe it's time to get some rest. I can handle him for now."
Kierra opened her mouth to argue, but something in the nurse's expression told her it was time to leave. With a final glance at Martin, she stood up, smoothing her jacket. "You'll be fine," she said, the words feeling strangely final. "I'll check in later."
As she stepped out into the cool hallway, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out without thinking, her thumb swiping across the screen.
[Breaking News: Heiress Kierra Davidson and Musician Martin Chase Spark Romance Rumors After Hospital Visit.]
Her heart skipped a beat.
She clicked the notification, her eyes scanning the article. The headline was plastered everywhere.
Photos from outside the hospital—a few blurry shots of her leaving, her face turned slightly away, but clearly identifiable—were paired with captions like "Heiress Kierra Davidson Seen Comforting Musician Martin Chase in Hospital: Are They More Than Friends?" and "Is Love in the Air Between Music's Rising Star and Billionaire Heiress?"
Kierra swallowed hard, her mind racing. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to create a story out of nothing, but the timing was too perfect. And now, all over social media, the hashtags were popping up like wildfire.
#KierraMartin, #MusicAndMoney, #ChaseDavidsonLove.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
How did this happen?