Xavier’s POV
The phone buzzed while I was reviewing charts between surgeries.
Priya Mehta's name glowed on the screen—unusual, since she rarely contacted me directly. Our interactions were limited to professional necessity, colored by her obvious disapproval of my relationship with Summer.
Whatever she wanted, it wasn't a social call.
I almost let it go to voicemail while I focused on the next patient, but something made me answer.
"Dr. Hale." Priya's voice was strained, urgent in a way I'd never heard from her. "It's Summer. She's been admitted through an emergency. Head trauma."
My blood ran cold before my brain finished processing the words.
"What happened?" The question came out sharp, demanding.
"I don't know the details. They're prepping her for surgery now. Just…" Her voice cracked. "Just thought you need to know."
The line went dead.
I abandoned my patient charts without a second thought. Let them reassign the surgery, let them question my professionalism, let them wonder why Dr. Xavier Hale had suddenly abandoned his post in the middle of a shift.
None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except getting to Summer.
The surgical wing was chaos when I arrived—nurses rushing between stations, monitors beeping with competing urgencies, hushed voices discussing prognosis in the particular shorthand of medical crisis.
I demanded information from a passing resident, pulled rank when she hesitated, used every ounce of authority my position afforded.
Summer Ellis. Head injury. Severe concussion with possible subdural hematoma. Currently in surgery.
The words hit like physical blows, each one stripping away another layer of professional composure.
I'd seen hundreds of head trauma cases in my career. Knew the statistics, the outcomes, the razor-thin margin between recovery and catastrophe. The clinical knowledge that usually provided distance now offered nothing but terrifying specificity.
The waiting room was where I found him.
Jay Callahan sat hunched forward in one of the plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. Dried blood stained his fingers, his shirt, everywhere I looked.
He appeared hollowed out—a shell of the cocky athlete who'd been pursuing Summer for weeks.
Our eyes met. Neither of us looked away.
I crossed the room in three strides, stopping directly in front of him. "What happened?"
Jay's gaze lifted slowly, taking in my presence with something that might have been surprise or might have been exhaustion too complete to register emotion. "Dr. Hale. Of course you're here."
"What. Happened." I bit off each word. "Where was she? How did you find her?"
"The arena." His voice came out rough, fractured. "I went back for my phone after the game. Found her at the bottom of the stairs near the medical office. She wasn't moving. There was blood everywhere, and I saw someone running, but I couldn't…"
He stopped, swallowed hard. "I brought her here. They took her into surgery."
"Someone was running?" I seized on the detail. "Who? Did you see their face?"
"No, it was dark. Just... a shadow. Moving fast, like they were fleeing."
"And you didn't even try to see who—"
"I was a little busy trying to keep Summer alive." Jay's eyes flashed with sudden fury.
His fist clenched at his side. I saw the intention forming in his eyes—the violence building toward release, and I didn't step back.
Part of me wanted him to throw the punch. Wanted an outlet for the terror churning through my chest, the helplessness of standing in this sterile room while Summer fought for her life behind closed doors.
"Touch me," I said quietly, "and I'll have security escort you out. You'll spend the rest of the night in a holding cell while she recovers. Is that what you want?"
"What I want is for you to disappear. To stop pretending you have any claim on her after everything you've done."
"What I've done? I've supported her career. I've mentored her through the hardest years of her training. I've been there for her in ways you can't even—"
"ENOUGH."
Nathan's voice cut through our confrontation like a blade through flesh.
He stood in the doorway, still in the clothes he'd thrown on to race here. His expression was controlled fury—a storm barely contained behind the mask of a man who'd had too much practice managing chaos.
"I don't care what's happening between you two." He moved into the room, positioning himself between us with deliberate precision. "I don't care who started it, who said what, who threw the first insult. My sister is in surgery with a head wound, and neither of you is going to make this about your egos."
"Nathan…" Jay started.
"Shut up." Nathan's voice was quiet and lethal. "You can tear each other apart later. Right now, you're going to sit down, shut up, and wait like civilized human beings. If I hear one more word from either of you, I will personally remove you from this building. Understood?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
I stepped back first. Found a chair on the opposite side of the room and sat, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. Jay sank back into his own seat, the fight draining out of him, leaving nothing but exhaustion and fear.
Nathan remained standing, a sentinel between us, his gaze fixed on the doors that led to the surgical suites.
Hours passed.
I watched Jay across the room—the way he stared at his blood-stained hands, the way his lips moved occasionally in what might have been prayer. I hated him with a purity that surprised me. Hated his youth, his passion, his willingness to fight openly for a woman I'd only ever loved in the shadows.
But beneath the hatred was something worse: the knowledge that he'd been there. He'd found her. He'd held her while she bled and brought her here and done everything I would have done if I'd had the chance.
The surgical doors finally opened.
A doctor emerged—Dr. Reyes, the head of neurosurgery, someone I'd consulted dozens of times. Her expression was careful, measured, delivering news she'd delivered a thousand times before.
"She's stable. The surgery went well—we were able to relieve the pressure and there's no sign of ongoing hemorrhage. She's being moved to recovery now."
"Can we see her?" Nathan's voice was rough with suppressed emotion.
"One at a time. She may be disoriented when she wakes—that's normal after this type of procedure. Don't be alarmed if she seems confused."
Nathan looked between me and Jay, making a decision I couldn't have predicted. "Jay, you go first."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Nathan's expression stopped me. This wasn't a choice I got to contest. Not now.
Jay stood slowly, wiping his palms on his bloodstained jeans, and followed the nurse through the recovery room doors.
I waited. Minutes stretched into eternities. Nathan paced by the window. I stared at the floor, counting tiles, trying to maintain the professional detachment that had always served me in crisis situations.
Then Jay emerged.
His face was ashen. His expression—something I couldn't read, something between devastation and shock. He walked past us without a word, headed for the exit, and disappeared into the corridor.
Nathan looked at me, alarm flickering in his eyes. "What the hell happened?"
I didn't wait for permission. I pushed through the recovery room doors, my heart pounding, my professional composure finally abandoning me completely.
Summer lay in the hospital bed, blonde hair spread across white pillows, monitors beeping steady rhythms that said she was alive. Alive. The word echoed through my chest like a bell.
Her eyes were open. She turned toward me as I approached, and I searched her face for recognition—for the softness she used to show me, the complicated warmth that had built between us over months of stolen moments.
"Summer." Her name came out rough, desperate. "Thank God. I was so worried. When I heard what happened, I…"
"I'm sorry." Her voice was polite, confused. "Do I know you?"
The words stopped me cold.
I stared at her—the woman I'd loved in secret—and saw nothing but polite confusion in her eyes. No recognition, no warmth. Just a patient looking at a stranger in a white coat.
My hands moved automatically, reaching for her chart at the foot of the bed. Medical training taking over where emotion had failed. I scanned the notes, the diagnosis, the careful documentation of her condition.
Head trauma. Significant memory impairment. Retrograde amnesia—extent unknown.
The chart fell from my numb fingers.
Summer watched me with those familiar dark eyes, the eyes I'd memorized in six months of loving her in the shadows, and she didn't know who I was.
She didn't remember any of us.