POV Noelle
His mother has cancer.
The realization hits me like a freight train while I’m sitting in this sterile waiting room that smells like disinfectant and broken dreams.
Owen’s not just some hired muscle daddy dearest picked up from the bodyguard catalog. He’s a son watching his mother die, and this job, babysitting me, is probably the only thing keeping her alive.
Well, fuck. That puts my little rebellion campaign in a whole new light.
I mean, yeah, he probably has other reasons for taking this job.
Maybe he enjoys following spoiled rich girls around and watching them make terrible life choices. Maybe he gets off on the whole protective alpha male thing.
But this? This is the main one.
His mother is dying, and my father’s money is the only thing standing between her and whatever shitty healthcare plan covers “thoughts and prayers.”
I’m sitting in a chair that’s designed by someone who clearly hates the human spine, watching Owen disappear behind heavy doors with men in white coats.
The waiting room is full of people who look like they’re waiting for either miracles or final verdicts, and I’m just the entitled brat who complained about her ice cream melting.
Christ. I’m a terrible person.
A few moments later, Owen emerges with two doctors who look like they’ve been having the kind of conversation that requires a lot of careful word choice and professional empathy.
One of them pats Owen’s shoulder—the universal gesture for “I’m sorry your life is complicated.”
“Is everything alright with your mom?” I ask when he reaches me.
“She’s alright. She’s doing better.”
Owen’s voice has that careful control that means he’s working overtime to keep his shit together.
“The doctor called because my mother was asking for me when she woke up.”
I can hear the pain in his voice, buried underneath all that professional composure. It’s the sound of someone who’s been carrying weight for so long he’s forgotten what it feels like to stand up straight.
“That’s good,” I say, because what else do you say, “That she’s asking for you, I mean. That she’s awake.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation dies there, because apparently I’m as good at emotional support as I am at not falling down stairs.
Owen needs to talk to the doctors about treatment plans and insurance bullshit and all the administrative nightmare that comes with watching someone you love slowly disappear.
“I’m gonna grab a drink,” I say, gesturing toward the vending machines. “Give you space to… you know. Doctor stuff.”
Owen nods, already turning back toward the men in white coats.
I walk toward the vending machines, trying to look like I have purpose instead of just trying to get out of the way.
The hospital corridors are that special kind of depressing that comes with fluorescent lighting and industrial carpet, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m probably the only person here who’s not dealing with actual life-and-death situations.
I’m fumbling with dollar bills when I bump into someone coming around the corner.
“Watch where you’re going.”
I look up to see a blonde woman with black-rimmed glasses giving me the kind of look that could freeze hell over. She’s probably in her thirties, dressed in scrubs, and clearly having the kind of day that makes everyone else an enemy.
“Geez, sorry,” I apologize, stepping back.
She doesn’t respond, just disappears into one of the rooms with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests she’s got more important things to do than deal with clumsy college students.
I roll my eyes and feed my crumpled bills into the vending machine.
Of course the hospital staff is as friendly as a tax audit. I punch the buttons for a Sprite, watching the can tumble down with that satisfying mechanical thunk.
“Are you ready to go?” Owen’s voice behind me makes me jump.
I turn around, and he looks exactly like someone who just spent twenty minutes discussing cancer treatment options with people who get paid to deliver bad news professionally.
“Yeah,” I nod, cracking open the Sprite. “How’d it go?”
“Fine.”
That’s Owen-speak for ‘I don’t want to talk about it’, which is fair.
If I were watching my mother die while babysitting a spoiled rich girl, I probably wouldn’t want to discuss it either.
We walk back to the car in complete silence. The kind of silence that’s heavy with all the things we’re not saying, all the ways this job is more complicated than either of us bargained for.
I slide into the passenger seat, and Owen starts the engine with the kind of mechanical precision that suggests he’s running on autopilot. The radio plays some generic pop song that’s probably supposed to be uplifting, but right now it just sounds like noise.
“You’ll start self-defense training tomorrow,” Owen says suddenly. “Six AM sharp.”
“That’s so early.” The words come out as a whine before I can stop them.
“Yes, six AM. Before you head to your lectures.”
“Geez, okay.”
Because what else am I going to say? That I’m not a morning person? That I need at least two cups of coffee before I can function like a human being?
That asking me to do anything athletic before sunrise is like asking a vampire to work a day shift?
The man’s mother has cancer. He’s dealing with insurance companies and treatment plans and the slow-motion nightmare of watching someone you love fade away.
And I’m worried about getting up early.
“Alright,” I say again, softer this time.
And for the first time since this whole bodyguard thing started, I actually mean it.