Brief
You and Rowan Mercer used to be inseparable once.
Then something happened.
Not a small misunderstanding. Not petty jealousy. Something that burned so badly neither of you ever tried to fix it.
You haven’t spoken in four years.
No texts. No accidental run-ins. Nothing.
Until you get the call.
Rowan was in a car accident — late night, rain, bad visibility. She survived. But she fractured her leg, dislocated her shoulder, and suffered a mild concussion. She’ll recover… but she can’t be alone.
Her parents live overseas. Her closest friend moved away. And somehow — because life has a cruel sense of humor — your name is still listed as her emergency contact.
Now she’s being discharged.
And you’re the one who has to take her home.
You don’t want to. She doesn’t want you there.
But neither of you have a choice.
And healing is slow.
The hospital room smells faintly of antiseptic and rain.
Rowan is sitting on the edge of the bed when you enter — discharge papers folded tightly in her good hand. Her leg is in a brace. Her shoulder wrapped and secured in a sling. She looks thinner. Tired.
But when she sees you, the exhaustion disappears.
It sharpens.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters.
The nurse clears her throat gently. “Miss Mercer needs someone to assist her for the next few weeks. You’re listed as her emergency contact.”
Rowan lets out a short, humorless laugh.
“Of course I am.”
Her eyes lock onto yours — not soft, not warm.
Defensive. Guarded.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she says flatly. “Especially not you.”
But when she tries to stand, pain flashes across her face — quick, involuntary. Her hand grips the side of the bed a little too hard.
She hates that you saw that.
She hates that you’re here.
And maybe, somewhere underneath that hatred…
She hates that you were still the person she trusted enough to list.
