But none of it felt real without Mom knowing. Without her seeing that I'd made it, that her sacrifices paid off, that she never had to work another ICU shift if she didn't want to.

My pace increased without conscious decision—feet moving faster, eating up distance, driven by something I couldn't name. My breathing quickened. Sweat formed at my temples despite the cool air, at the small of my back under my jacket, making my shirt stick slightly. My heart rate climbed from resting to something approaching exercise.

"Your heart rate is elevated," ARIA observed, voice clinical. "Respiratory rate increasing. You're essentially jogging now. Heart rate at 118 BPM and climbing."

"I want to see her."

"I'm aware. Your biometric data suggests significant emotional attachment combined with what might be classified as separation anxiety, though that term typically applies to—"

"ARIA."

"Yes, Master?"

"Shut up."

"Understood."

Mercy General appeared ahead—ten stories of institutional architecture trying to look welcoming and failing spectacularly, all beige concrete and tiny windows and that specific hospital aesthetic that was supposed to be calming but just felt oppressive. Exterior lit up like Christmas, every window glowing, ambulances creating constant motion at the emergency entrance.

Mom worked here. Had worked here for years. Twelve-hour shifts in the ER before the ICU. Had come home exhausted night after night, scrubs stained, feet aching, eyes red from crying over patients she couldn't save.

The ICU was on the seventh floor. Her shift ended at midnight. It was 11:53 PM according to my quantum watch—the display crisp and clear, showing time and my vitals and probably three other metrics I hadn't asked for.

I walked through the main entrance—automatic doors sliding open with pneumatic hiss, blast of cold air-conditioned atmosphere hitting me like walking into a freezer, that hospital smell intensifying into something almost physical.

The security guard looked up from his desk—older Black guy, probably mid-sixties, gray at the temples, the kind of weathered face that had seen everything and was rarely impressed by anything. Probably retired cop, definitely had that cop bearing, that way of assessing threats without seeming to look directly at you.

"Evening, here for Ms. Linda Carter." I said, keeping my voice casual, normal.

He blinked, recovering. His professional mask sliding back into place, but I'd seen that moment of recognition. "You're... family?"

"Her son. Peter."

Something in his expression shifted—surprise maybe, or recognition, or both. "Linda's son. She talks about you sometimes. Adopted you, right? Proud as hell of how you turned out."

That hit differently than expected. Like a fist to the solar plexus, knocking air from my lungs. Making my chest tight and my throat close slightly. "She talks about me?"

"Hell yeah. All the time. We are friends and we talk about our kids, hahaha." He smiled—genuine warmth, the kind you couldn't fake. "Says her boy's doing real good for himself now. Made something of his life. Got himself educated, got a good job, takes care of his family. She lights up when she talks about you, man. That's a mom who's proud of her kid."

He gestured at my clothes—leather jacket that cost more than he probably made in a month, designer shirt underneath, perfectly fitted pants that were tailored specifically to my body, shoes worth more than his car payment. "Guess she wasn't exaggerating."

"Can I go up?" The words came out rougher than I intended. Emotion making my voice thick.

"Visiting hours ended at nine, but..." He glanced at his computer screen, then back at me. Something in his face said he was making exception he normally wouldn't. "ICU's on seven. Elevators are that way. Try not to disturb any patients, yeah?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, son." He settled back into his chair, that genuine smile still on his face.

"And hey—your mom's good people. One of the best nurses here. Works harder than anyone I've ever seen. She brags about you, you know. Says her son's the reason she drives that Mercedes now. That you made it happen for her. That's real love right there—kid who takes care of his mom like that."

"Glad she's got family that cares enough to pick her up at midnight," he added.

The elevator was empty—reflective walls showing me back to myself. Peter Carter, not Eros.

But not regular Peter anymore either. The Taboo System had changed things—made me catastrophically beautiful in ways that didn't make sense.

Stormy grey eyes that now held golden sparks deep in the iris—subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice unless they looked close, obvious enough that anyone who did would wonder what the fuck they were seeing.

I pressed seven and the elevator lurched upward with that mechanical groan elevators made.

Seventh floor arrived with a soft ding. The doors slid open and the hallway stretched out in that institutional way—linoleum floors polished to a shine, fluorescent lighting harsh and unforgiving, hand sanitizer dispensers every ten feet like sentries, that constant low-grade noise of medical equipment and quiet conversations and controlled chaos that was the soundtrack of every hospital in existence.

The smell hit harder up here—antiseptic and sickness and that underlying smell of death that no amount of cleaning could completely erase. Beeping from monitors. The whoosh of ventilators. Quiet conversations between nurses and doctors. Footsteps echoing. The specific soundscape of people fighting to keep other people alive.

The ICU waiting room sat at the end of the hall—another attempt at comfort that failed spectacularly.

A TV mounted in the corner showing news nobody watched, volume low, closed captions scrolling across the bottom.

But before I reached the waiting room, I had to pass the nurses' station.

Three of them clustered around the circular desk—all in scrubs, all focused on charts and computer screens and the thousand administrative tasks that kept the ICU running. Two women, one man. The usual end-of-shift energy, that specific exhaustion mixed with relief that the hardest part was almost over.

Then I walked past.

The blonde one—mid-thirties maybe, athletic build, hair pulled back in that practical ponytail nurses wore—looked up first. Her pen stopped mid-note. Her mouth opened slightly. Her eyes tracked me with the kind of focus people reserved for things that didn't make sense, things their brain struggled to process.

"Holy..." she whispered, not quite under her breath.

The brunette beside her followed her gaze—younger, maybe late twenties, darker skin, curves that scrubs somehow made more noticeable. Her reaction was more subtle but no less obvious. A sharp inhale. Her hand going still on the keyboard. Eyes widening just slightly before she caught herself and looked away, then immediately looked back like she couldn't help it.

"C-Can w-we help you?" The blonde asked, voice slightly higher than normal. Professional words with unprofessional undertones.

"Just waiting for someone," I said, keeping my voice casual, normal.

"Oh." She blinked. "Are you... family of a patient?"

"Waiting for Linda Carter. She's about to get off shift."

Recognition flashed across the brunette's face. "You're Linda's son?" She said it like she was confirming something impossible. Like the equation didn't balance. "She talks about you all the time but she never mentioned you were—" She cut herself off, probably realizing she was about to say something inappropriate.

"That you looked like that," the blonde finished, apparently having fewer filters. "Jesus, does everyone in your family look like they walked out of a magazine or is it just you?"

"Suzzie," the male nurse said, warning in his tone. Professional reminder.

"What? I'm just saying." Suzzie—the blonde—smiled at me, and there was definite interest there. Not just appreciation, but active interest. The kind of smile that said she'd be happy to show me exactly how interested she was if I gave her any encouragement.

"Your mom's lucky to have such a... dedicated son. Coming to pick her up at midnight."

The brunette had gone back to pretending to work on her computer, but I could see her eyes flicking toward me every few seconds. Could see the way her breathing had changed, slightly faster, slightly shallower. The way she kept tucking hair behind her ear even though it was already tucked. Nervous energy that came from attraction she was trying to hide.

"I'll just be in the waiting room," I said, gesturing down the hall.

"Of course." Suzzie's smile widened. "Let us know if you need anything. Anything at all."

The emphasis on the second "anything" was about as subtle as a brick through a window.

I nodded and continued down the hall, feeling their eyes on my back the entire way. Heard the immediate whispered conversation that started the moment they thought I was out of earshot.

"Oh my god—"

"That's Linda's son? That's who she's been talking about?"

"Did you see—"

"How is that even fair? Like, genetics shouldn't be allowed to do that."

"He's probably taken. Guys who look like that are always taken."

"Or gay."

"Don't say that just because you can't have him, Suzzie."

I settled into a chair that squeaked under my weight—Mom's jacket still folded over my arm, soft leather warm from my body heat, still carrying that smell that was uniquely hers.

And I waited.

For the most important woman in my life to finish saving others so I could take her home.

For reasons that were getting harder to ignore and more complicated to examine.

For Linda Carter to walk through those doors and make everything feel less overwhelming just by existing in the same space as me.

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