11. Markus

CHAPTER 11

Markus

Mondays were supposed to be a fresh start. New week, new focus. At least, that’s what I told myself when I walked into the facility, ready to bury myself in charts and rounds. After an unsatisfying weekend spent thinking about Nicky—the off-limits Nicky who’d been avoiding me for the past week—I needed the distraction.

He probably felt self-conscious after everything. The breakdown at Cedar Hill. Showing up at my house unexpectedly. I’d tried to approach him midweek, wanting to tell him he’d always be safe with me, that I’d never betray his trust. But it didn’t take long to realize he was actively avoiding me. Every time I came near, he made himself scarce.

It stung more than I cared to admit, but I decided not to push it. He’d come around when he was ready. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, chasing him wouldn’t help.

I was determined to put it out of my mind. Work would help. It had to.

It was ten-thirty, not even lunchtime yet, and Carl was throwing a wrench in that plan.

Carl was one of those residents who kept life interesting. His wiry frame, rich dark brown skin the color of espresso, and neatly trimmed beard dusted with gray made him look distinguished, but the twinkle in his sharp eyes promised mischief.

He waved me into his room with a hand that didn’t look the least bit weak, despite his claim of needing assistance.

“Doc,” he drawled, his voice smooth and warm, like jazz on a Sunday afternoon. “I need to move these old bones from the chair to the bed. But I’m too worn out to get myself together.”

I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm. And I can’t be examined properly unless Nicholas is here. He’s got the magic touch, you know.”

The request shouldn’t have surprised me. Carl and Beverly were thick as thieves, and if Beverly was in the matchmaking business, Carl was her chief consultant. I tapped into the intercom system to page Nicholas to Carl’s room, keeping my tone neutral.

A few minutes later, Nicky appeared in the doorway, a little out of breath, a clipboard tucked under one arm. His uniform was perfectly neat, but his hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run his fingers through it too many times.

“You need me, Mr. Carter?” His voice was even, but his gaze darted between Carl and me, lingering on me a second too long.

“I'd love to get from this chair to the bed, but I'm not sure I've got the strength. You're the only one I trust.”

Nicky moved to Carl’s bedside, pulling on gloves with practiced efficiency. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

As we worked—lifting, positioning, adjusting—I caught Carl watching us with a knowing smile.

“Did I ever tell you about my Henry?” Carl asked as Nicky carefully checked his vitals.

“No, sir. But I have a feeling you’re about to,” Nicky replied with a small grin, his tone gentler than usual.

Carl chuckled. “Met him in ‘68. I was a young man, not much older than you, Nicholas. Henry was... Well, he was something else. Smooth talker, dashing looks, made me feel like I was the only one in the room.”

I handed Nicky a blood pressure cuff, our fingers brushing for a brief moment. He glanced at me, and for a second, something unspoken passed between us. I looked away first, focusing on Carl.

“Back then was no where near like what we have now. We had to be careful, quiet. Sneaking glances, sharing smiles when no one was looking.” Carl’s voice grew softer, his gaze distant, wistful. “But we made it work. For fifty years, we made it work.”

He paused, and the room seemed to hold its breath with him.

“We even got married, believe it or not. In 2016. The happiest day of my life.” He chuckled, though it sounded sad. “Lost him two years later. Heart finally gave out. But you know, I’d do it all over again if I could.”

Neither Nicky nor I spoke for a moment, both of us caught in the weight of Carl’s story.

Carl broke the silence with a sly smile. “You two work well together, you know. Like Sammy Davis Jr. and Carmen de Lavallade. Always in sync.”

Nicky flushed and busied himself with tidying up the bedside table. I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head.

“But don’t let this old man tell you how to dance,” Carl added with a wink.

When we were done, Nicky excused himself, mumbling something about checking on another resident. I watched him go, his shoulders tight, his steps brisk.

Carl cleared his throat, drawing my attention back. “He’s a good one. A hard worker. Excellent with the residents, though a little rough ‘round the edges.”

I didn’t answer, just gave him a nod and headed out the door.

And there he was. Nicky, standing right outside, close enough that I could catch a faint hint of his shampoo—something fresh and clean. I blinked, surprised. My mind raced, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was he waiting for me?

His gaze flickered up, meeting mine for just a beat before he dropped it again, like he was unsure whether to say something.

“Can we talk?” His voice was softer than usual, almost careful.

At about five foot six or seven, he barely came up to my chin, but somehow he always managed to command the space around him. Now, though, he looked uncertain, his eyes flicking to the closed door behind us before meeting mine.

“Sure.” I gestured down the hallway. “Let’s use my office.”

As we walked, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was about to bring up. Did he want to talk about last week? About showing up at my house, or how he’d been avoiding me ever since? My mind churned with possibilities, but I stayed quiet, letting him set the pace.

Once we were inside my office, he hovered by the door for a second before stepping in fully. His arms crossed, then uncrossed, before he finally let out a breath and looked at me straight on.

“I’m worried about Carl.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected.

I leaned back against my desk, crossing my arms loosely. “Why? He seems fine—better than fine, really.”

Nicky shook his head, his brows drawing together. “It’s not that.” He shifted, and I could see his shoulders tense as if he was expecting me to react differently, or maybe he was worrying about something else entirely.

Was he thinking that—? Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Look, I’m pretty sure that was just more of the residents’ shenanigans to get us in the same room. Another excuse to play matchmaker.” I raised my hands in surrender. “I’ve got nothing to do with it. I’ll always be professional. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I think something’s off, Dr. Webber. Carl seemed really tired, and his lips were dry. When I checked his water jug, it was still full, his glass didn’t have a drop of water in it—like he hadn’t had a sip all day. Maybe it’s nothing, but I thought I should say something.”

The way his voice wavered just slightly, the furrow in his brow—it reminded me of the first time we met, when he’d cornered me about Beverly’s sore with the same mix of worry and determination.

How had I gone straight to assuming he was worried about Carl playing matchmaker when that wasn’t it at all? I was overthinking this.

“You’re right to bring it up.” I straightened, grabbing my tablet. “Let’s go check on him again.”

Carl’s room was as we’d left it, save for him looking smugger than before.

“Back already?” Carl grinned, but it faded slightly when I pulled a chair close to his bed and rested my hand lightly on his.

“Just a quick check, Carl. Humor me.”

I gently pinched the skin on the back of his hand, watching how long it took to smooth out. Longer than it should have. Nicky, without a word, grabbed the pitcher from Carl’s bedside, filled a glass, and brought it over, moving with calm efficiency.

“Drink,” he said, his tone firm but kind.

Carl gave a theatrical sigh but took the glass, sipping slowly.

“Better?” Nicky asked, his fingers lightly brushing the armrest of my chair as he stepped back, close but not intrusive.

“Better,” Carl grumbled, though he shot Nicky a look that said he’d rather not admit it.

“We’ll get some broth sent up, too,” I said, tapping into the system on my tablet to place the request. “That’ll help get your hydration back up, but you’ve got to make drinking water a priority, Carl. It’s not optional—it’s essential.”

Carl sighed, shaking his head with mock indignation. “You doctors. Always with the lectures.”

“Only because I like having you around to tease me,” I countered. “Take care of yourself.”

I glanced at the hardworking CNA. “Stay with him, make sure he drinks a bit more water while we wait. I’ll check on something and swing back.”

Nicky gave a quick nod. As I left, their voices carried after me—Carl grumbling good-naturedly while Nicky coaxed him with just the right balance of humor and care.

I couldn’t help but think about what made Carl such a memorable patient. It wasn’t just his sharp humor or his way of turning every moment into a story worth telling—it was his resilience, the way he faced life head-on, even in moments of vulnerability.

And then there was Nicky. Watching him work, with his gentle persistence and unwavering attention to detail, I realized he shared some of that same quality. Nicky had a way of seeing people that made them feel safe and cared for. It wasn’t just skill; it was who he was.

By the time I returned, the broth had already arrived, and Nicky was holding the bowl steady as Carl sipped. Carl gave a dramatic sigh, then smirked. “He has a knack for bossing me around.”

“You’ve got to follow the doctor’s orders,” Nicky urged gently. “We can’t have you running on empty.”

“You should give him a raise, Doc.”

I leaned against the doorway, taking in the scene. The way Nicky worked—calm, attentive, patient—it was something you couldn’t teach. Carl wasn’t just a patient to him; he was a person, and Nicky saw him fully.

By the time we finally left, Carl looked like a different man. His eyes were brighter, his humor sharper. In the hallway, I stopped and turned to Nicky.

“Good catch,” I said, watching how his shoulders straightened at the words. “Dehydration can sneak up on people, especially someone Carl’s age. I’ll keep an eye on him and follow up.”

The way he looked at me, like I’d just handed him the moon, made my chest tighten. I turned toward my office before the words I shouldn’t say spilled out. Words like, I’m into you. Would you consider being my boy?

I shook my head at myself as I walked away. Nicky wasn’t just good at his job—his natural warmth and quiet competence made him the kind of person others instinctively trusted. It was impossible not to admire those qualities professionally, but more and more, I realized how much I admired them personally, too.

Later, as I checked on Carl before leaving for the day, he greeted me with a sly grin.

“You two are worse than my mother was,” he said. “But I’ll admit, that broth hit the spot.”

I shook my head, fighting a smile. “We’ll run some labs just to be safe,” I added, tapping into my tablet. “In the meantime, keep up with fluids. We’ll check in again tomorrow.”

As I walked away, his soft chuckle trailed behind me, warm and reassuring. And yet, it wasn’t Carl I was thinking about.

My resolve to keep things professional with Nicky felt shakier than ever. Carl’s story about Henry lingered in my mind—a reminder that some chances are worth taking. Maybe it wasn’t just Carl who needed to reevaluate what really mattered.