Kyle told himself—again—that this was not attachment.
It was obligation. Balance. A debt he owed. A simple repayment for what she had done for him years ago. Nothing more.
He had learned the hard way what happened when he allowed emotions to interfere with control. They distracted. They weakened. They demanded more than he could give.
And yet, the pull was undeniable.
The next morning, he ran the trail as if it were ritual. Mist hovered low over the path, the forest silent except for the rhythm of his feet and the steady beat of his heart. Every step brought him closer to Hollowridge, but he forced himself not to look at the building perched on the hill. Not yet.
By the time he reached the office, he knew he couldn't wait any longer.
"Emily," he said, entering his office, jacket slung over one shoulder. His voice was calm, measured. "I need a meeting arranged."
Emily looked up immediately. "With whom, sir?"
"Kate A.," he said. He kept his expression neutral, practiced. "She's currently admitted at Hollowridge Mental Health Institute. I want an official, approved visit. Supervised if necessary."
Emily's eyes flicked up, registering surprise, but she remained composed. "Understood. Purpose of visit?"
Kyle hesitated just slightly. "I… know her personally. She was my nurse at St. Vincent's when I was admitted years ago. I want to see her again. That's all."
Emily nodded, already typing. "I'll coordinate with Hollowridge and schedule it as soon as possible."
He nodded once, turning back to his desk, trying to ignore the tight coil of nerves in his chest. This was not about curiosity. Not about emotion. Not yet.
The visit was scheduled for the following afternoon. Kyle almost canceled twice before leaving the office that day. But something deep inside compelled him forward.
Hollowridge was colder inside than Kyle had imagined. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic mixed with age and quiet despair. Long corridors stretched before him, doors lining each side, soft clicks echoing with every step he took.
"She doesn't speak much," a nurse said gently, stopping him at the door to the visitation room. "But she's calm today. Don't take it personally if she doesn't respond."
Kyle nodded. He didn't trust his voice to stay even.
The door opened.
Kate A. sat near the window, hands folded loosely in her lap. She didn't turn. She didn't even blink toward him. The sunlight filtering through the curtains caught the edge of her dark hair, outlined her face in pale gold, but it did nothing to illuminate her expression.
She was there. And yet… she wasn't.
Kyle's chest tightened.
This was the woman who had cared for him when he had been broken—physically, mentally, emotionally—at St. Vincent's. The woman who had stayed by his side while his world collapsed around him, who had spoken gently when his body refused to obey him, who had steadied him when sleep was impossible.
And now she was… silent. Empty. Distant.
He swallowed. Tried to steady his breath. Tried to remind himself: this is not emotional involvement. This is repayment.
But even as he told himself that, he felt his heart constrict.
He stepped closer, careful not to startle her. "Kate," he said quietly.
Still nothing.
"You might not remember me," he continued, voice low, almost reverent. "Or maybe you do. I don't know. I—" He paused, searching for words that wouldn't break the fragile quiet. "I was your patient at St. Vincent's. A long time ago. You helped me… more than you could have known."
She didn't respond. She didn't even turn. Only her hands rested on her lap, still as if holding herself together from inside.
Kyle studied her—not for beauty, not for familiarity, but for signs of life. Signs that the woman who had saved him was still in there somewhere.
He wanted to speak, to reach across the space between them and tell her he remembered every detail of her kindness. He wanted to reassure her, protect her, and repay a debt he had never truly understood until now.
Instead, he simply observed.
Her lips parted slightly as she breathed, shallow and controlled. Her eyes, though not meeting his, held a trace of awareness. He recognized it instantly—the spark of someone who had lived through horrors but had survived.
Kyle felt something unfamiliar: helplessness. The kind that gnawed at the edges of his carefully constructed control. He couldn't fix what had been done to her. He couldn't erase the years of fear, silence, and abuse.
All he could do was be present.
He spoke again, softer this time. "I'm Kyle… I was your patient. I just… wanted to see you. To… thank you properly."
Her gaze remained fixed on the window. Silence stretched between them.
Kyle wanted to reach for her hand, but he hesitated. He didn't want to frighten her, didn't want to push her away. She was delicate now, fragile not from weakness but from survival.
So he stayed, watching her, letting her exist in her quiet world while he occupied the space beside her.
For the first time in a long while, Kyle Harrington understood what it meant to be powerless—not in the boardroom, not in the streets, not in negotiations—but here, with a woman who had saved him, yet could not speak, could not acknowledge, could not reach back.
And he realized something he hadn't allowed himself to admit: he could not turn away.
Not this time.