Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Patient

The alarm pierced the air, a sharp, grating sound that cut through the brief lull in the ER. Kellie Walter didn't flinch. She stood at the sink, the water running hot over her hands as she peeled off her blood-soaked gloves.

The trauma from the car wreck had been messy, but she had handled it. She always did.

Caleb Fletcher hovered a few feet away, his blue scrubs still crisp, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and exhaustion. "Dr. Walter," he said, his voice low and reverent. "You're like the anchor of this department. That guy would have bled out if you weren't here."

Kellie turned off the faucet and grabbed a paper towel. She dried her hands with quick, efficient movements. She shot him a glance, her expression flat. "Put your energy into observing and learning, Fletcher. Not kissing my ass."

Caleb's cheeks flushed red. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the double doors banged open.

A nurse pushed a gurney at a fast clip, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum. "Acute alcohol poisoning," she called out, her voice tight. "Severe abdominal pain, vomiting. Vitals are stable for now."

Kellie tossed the paper towel into the bin and strode toward the bay. She looked down at the patient. He was curled on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. His face was pale, sickly white, and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat.

The stench hit her immediately. Stale, cheap whiskey, the kind that burned on the way down and smelled like rot on the way up. Kellie's nose wrinkled. It was a smell she despised, a smell that reminded her of weakness and bad decisions.

She snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves, the rubber snapping against her wrists. "Sir," she said, her voice loud and commanding. "Can you hear me?"

He let out a groan, his body trembling.

Caleb hovered by the foot of the bed, scribbling on his clipboard. "Just another young guy drinking himself to death in Manhattan," he muttered.

Kellie ignored him. She placed her hands on the patient's abdomen, pressing down firmly. The man let out a muffled cry of pain, his muscles seizing under her touch. Rebound tenderness. This wasn't just a hangover.

She needed to check his pupils. She reached out with one hand, her fingers firm against his jaw, and tilted his face up toward the harsh glare of the overhead surgical lights.

The moment his face was fully illuminated, Kellie's hands froze.

The air left her lungs. Her heart did a violent stutter-step against her ribs.

It was a striking face. Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark brows. Even sick and pale, the bone structure was undeniable. But it wasn't the handsomeness that stopped her cold.

It was recognition.

A month and eight days ago. The New York City Clerk's Office. That face, looking at her across a scarred wooden desk, signing a marriage certificate.

Jeffry Alston.

Her husband.

"Dr.