Maya couldn't stop thinking about Luke Nash.
Three days after the parking garage incident, she still replayed the scene in her mind. The way he'd moved—fast, precise, dangerous. That wasn't self-defense classes. That was something else entirely.
She'd seen soldiers in the ER, veterans with combat training. Luke moved like them. Like someone who'd actually hurt people before, not just practiced forms in a gym.
But he was supposed to be a grad student studying Renaissance politics.
The pieces didn't fit.
"Earth to Maya." Her coworker Jen waved a hand in front of her face. "You still with us?"
Maya blinked, focusing back on reality. They were in the break room, technically on their fifteen-minute break. The ER was slammed with flu season hitting hard.
"Sorry. Tired."
"You're always tired." Jen studied Maya carefully. "But this is different. You're distracted. What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Liar. Come on, spill. Is it about the mugging?"
Maya had told a few people about the parking garage incident. Jen had been horrified and insisted Maya take time off, which Maya had refused. Bills didn't pay themselves.
"I'm fine about that. The security guard stopped it before anything happened."
"The new guy? Luke?" Jen perked up with interest. "I heard he fought like Bruce Lee or something. Took the guy down in seconds."
"It was pretty impressive," Maya admitted. "But also weird. He's just a grad student. Where does a history student learn to fight like that?"
"Military maybe? Lots of people do service before college."
"Maybe." But Luke didn't have that military bearing most veterans had. He was too graceful. Too smooth.
"Or maybe he's just naturally talented," Jen suggested. "Why do you care so much anyway? Are you into him?"
"What? No. I barely know him."
"That's why you've been sitting with him every night on your breaks for two weeks."
Maya felt her face heat. "We just happen to take breaks at the same time."
"In a hospital this size? And you always end up at the same table?" Jen smiled knowingly. "It's okay to be interested in someone, Maya. You're allowed to have a personal life."
"I don't have time for a personal life."
"You don't make time for one. There's a difference." Jen's expression softened. "I know you're dealing with a lot. But you can't work yourself to death. Your mom and dad wouldn't want that."
Maya's throat tightened. Her mother's last words had been almost exactly that. But what choice did Maya have? The debt was real. The bills kept coming.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"You're not fine. None of us is fine. This job destroys people." Jen squeezed Maya's hand. "At least let yourself have something good. Even if it's just coffee with a cute grad student who apparently knows kung fu."
Before Maya could respond, both their pagers went off. Multiple trauma incoming. Car pileup on the highway.
They ran.
The next four hours were chaos. Twelve casualties, three critical. Maya moved through it all on autopilot—starting IVs, taking vitals, assisting doctors. This was what she was good at.
Even if it was slowly killing her.
By 3 AM, the chaos had settled. Maya grabbed coffee and headed to the cafeteria, hoping Luke would be there. She needed something normal.
He was there. Sitting at their usual table, reading a book that looked old and leather-bound. He looked up when she approached, and his face brightened in a way that made something flutter in Maya's chest.
"Rough night?" he asked.
"Is it that obvious?" Maya collapsed into the chair across from him.
"You have blood on your scrubs."
Maya looked down. He was right—a small spatter on her left sleeve. "Car accident. Multiple casualties. Everyone lived, but it was close."
"That's good. That they lived."
"Yeah." Maya sipped her terrible coffee. "What are you reading?"
Luke glanced at the book like he'd forgotten he was holding it. "Just some personal research. Nothing exciting."
He closed it quickly, but not before Maya caught a glimpse of the text. It wasn't English. Latin maybe?
"That doesn't look like a textbook," she observed.
"It's not. Personal collection." Luke tucked the book into his backpack. "I collect old texts. Kind of a hobby."
"Expensive hobby for a broke grad student."
"I buy from estate sales. Cheap copies." But he said it too quickly. Like a rehearsed answer.
Maya studied him across the table. The bruise on his jaw had faded to yellow-green. He looked tired but not exhausted—not like someone working night security while studying full-time should look.
"Luke, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Who are you really?"
He went very still. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you don't quite fit." Maya leaned forward. "You fight like a trained soldier. You read ancient Latin. You have this presence. That's not grad student energy."
Luke was quiet for a long moment. "You're very perceptive."
"I'm a nurse. I'm trained to notice when things don't add up." Maya wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. "So what's the truth?"
He looked at her, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "The truth is complicated. And I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"I used to have a very different life," Luke said slowly. "A life with a lot of responsibility and power. But I was miserable. I couldn't feel anything anymore. So I walked away from it all to try to remember what being alive felt like."
"That's... surprisingly honest."
"I promised myself I wouldn't lie to you. Even if I can't tell you everything." Luke's expression was serious. "The details of my old life aren't important. What's important is that this is real. Me talking to you, working security, living in a crappy apartment. This is the most real I've felt in years."
Maya processed that. "What kind of responsibility and power are we talking about?"
"The kind that isolated me from normal human experience."
"So you were rich."
"Very."
"And you gave it up?"
"Temporarily. One year. To prove to myself I could live differently." Luke met her eyes. "I know how it sounds. But I understand if you think less of me."
Maya should have been angry. Rich people pretending to be poor while actual poor people struggled was offensive. But the raw honesty in Luke's voice stopped her judgment.
"How rich?" she asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Kind of, yeah."
Luke hesitated. "My family has significant resources."
"Could you pay off my debt with pocket change?"
Another pause. "Probably."
Maya laughed. She couldn't help it. The absurdity hit her all at once—here she was, drowning in debt, having coffee with someone who could write a check for that amount without noticing.
"That's insane," she said.
"I know."
"You could fix everything for me right now."
"I know." Luke looked pained. "But if I did, you'd always wonder about my motives. And Luke Nash is a broke grad student. I can't break character without raising questions I can't answer."
"Character," Maya repeated. "You're playing a role. The question is why."
"I'm not running from anything. I'm running toward something." Luke's intensity surprised her. "Toward feeling again. Toward remembering what it's like to be vulnerable and mortal and human."
The strange phrasing struck Maya. Remembering what it's like to be human. Not "normal" or "ordinary." Human specifically.
She should probably be more concerned. But Maya had spent two years watching people die. She'd learned that reality was weirder than anyone admitted.
"Okay," she said.
Luke blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay, I believe you. You're rich, you're slumming it for personal growth, and you can't tell me the details. That's fine." Maya sipped her coffee. "But I have conditions."
"Conditions?"
"If we're going to keep having coffee, I need honesty. Not all the details, but no more obvious lies. When you can't tell me something, just say so."
"That's fair."
"And don't try to fix my problems with your money. I need to handle my own life. Can you do that?"
Luke looked relieved. "Yes. I can do that."
"Then we're good." Maya finished her coffee and stood. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Absolutely."
She headed toward the door, then paused. "Luke? Thanks for being honest. It means a lot."
"Thank you for not judging me too harshly."
"Oh, I'm judging you." Maya smiled. "Rich boy playing poor is definitely judge-worthy. But you seem sincere about it, so I'll give you a chance."
She left, heading back into the ER with a strange lightness in her chest. Luke Nash—or whoever he really was—had secrets. Big ones. But he'd been honest when she pushed, and that counted for something.
More importantly, he'd saved her from a mugger without hesitation. He listened when she talked. He didn't try to fix her problems. He treated her like a person, not a sob story.
That was worth more than any amount of money.
Maya threw herself back into work, but in the back of her mind, she was still thinking about Luke's words.
Remembering what it's like to be human.
What a strange way to phrase it.
What a strange, intense, mysterious man.
She was definitely going to keep having coffee with him. If only to figure out what his deal really was.
And maybe, just maybe, because Jen was right.
Maybe Maya was a little bit into him.
Just a little.