---- Chapter 14 Khloe Rojas POV: The days in Al-Tharbia bled into one another, a monotonous thythm of chaos and quiet exhaustion. My old life felt like a dream, a story that had happened to someone else. | rarely thought of Julian. The news of his company's collapse and his fugitive status had reached even this remote corner of the world. | knew he was a wanted man, hunted by international authorities. My revenge was complete. | had felt a brief, cold flicker of satisfaction, and then... nothing. It hadn't healed me. It hadn't brought my brother back. But this work, this life, was different. It was real. It mattered. Faking my death had been the right choice. A man like Julian, cornered and broken, would have been a dangerous animal. He would have hunted me to the ends of the earth. But he wouldn't look for a dead woman. He wouldn't look for a quiet, nameless doctor in the middle of a war zone. | was safe. Gordon insisted on checking my injuries that evening. | let him into my small room, the space suddenly feeling intimate and close. He had a small medical kit with him. "Alright, let's see the damage," he said, his voice soft and professional. He was referring to a long, ugly gash on my back, a souvenir ---- from a collapsed wall during a recent bombing raid. | had slapped a field dressing on it and forgotten about it, too busy tending to others who were worse off. Now, it was throbbing with a dull, insistent pain. "Shirt off," he ordered gently. A blush crept up my neck. It was a strange, foreign sensation. | couldn't remember the last time | had felt shy or flustered. | turned my back to him and slowly pulled my rough cotton shirt over my head, leaving me in a thin tank top. The cool air hit my skin His touch was light and careful as he peeled away the old bandage. | flinched as he cleaned the wound. "Sorry," he murmured. "This should have been stitched hours ago. You're lucky it's not infected." His fingers were warm and steady against my skin as he worked, his movements efficient and sure. There was nothing romantic about it, yet it was the most tender touch | had felt in years. It was a touch meant to heal, not to take. When he was finished, he taped a clean white bandage over the wound. "All done," he said softly. "You can get dressed." As | pulled my shirt back on, | saw that the tips of his ears were red. A small, genuine smile touched my lips. In a place defined by brutality and hardness, his quiet decency was a beacon. ---- | knew he was interested in me. | saw it in the way he looked at me when he thought | wasn't watching, in the small kindnesses he showed me every day. But | had built a fortress around my heart, and the walls were high and thick. The ghost of Julian, of that all-consuming, destructive love, still lingered. | couldn't, wouldn't, let anyone else in. | picked up my notepad and wrote, Thank you, Gordon. But you shouldn't waste your time on me. I'm... complicated. He read the note, and his warm eyes met mine. There was no judgment in them, only a deep, unwavering kindness. "I'm a doctor, Khloe," he said, using my real name for the first time. It sounded strange and beautiful coming from him. "Complicated is what | do for a living." He placed his hand gently over mine. "I'm not asking for anything. Let me be your friend. Let me be here for you. And if one day, that can be something more, I'll be the luckiest man in the world. But if not... I'll still be right here." My throat felt tight. He was offering me something | hadn't realized | was starving for: patience. Respect. A safe harbor with no strings attached. | met his gaze and, for the first time since my world had shattered, | didn't immediately look away.