“I’m going to get a coffee. Want one?” I announce, springing up from the uncomfortable plastic chair and shooting a silentfuck youat the clock.
“I’ll get it,” Dameon offers, pocketing his phone.
I wave him off. “I could do with a walk. If I don’t focus on something else, I’m going to murder that clock.”
He arches his eyebrows, silently questioning my sanity.
Don’t worry, so am I.
I’ve annoyed everyone at the nurses’ station by repeatedly asking for updates. Dameon eventually intervened, threatening to restrain me to the chair with the bondage rope he keeps in the car if I asked again. And I know it wasn’t an idle threat. He would do it. So I bypass the nurses’ station without pausing to study their expressions for any hint of what’s happening. Why it’s taking so long.
I will my feet to keep moving until I spot Dr. Sanchez emerging through those double doors. His head swivels, searching for me amid the oppressive silence of the waiting room. His expression is stoic, and I can’t get a read. Without hesitation, I jog up to him, unwilling to wait another second.
“Any news? Is she okay?” I blurt out.
“Beth is doing really well.” His calm voice is a welcome relief. “The surgery was a success; it was a routine procedure, and we didn’t encounter any complications.”
“Oh, thank God!” I exclaim, my hand flying to my chest. The relief and tension drain from my body, leaving me feeling nothing but exhaustion. I’m too spent to even muster up excitement or happiness for Beth. Dameon appears behind me and enfolds me into his chest. His arms support my frame just as my knees threaten to collapse beneath me.
“She will be moved into ICU for a few days before transitioning back to her room in the ward for a couple of weeks to recover,” Dr. Sanchez explains. “She’ll feel brand-new in six months. But as you know, the risk of organ rejection is high during the first year, so we’ll need to monitor her closely. But Beth’s a fighter.” He squeezes my shoulder, offering a kind smile.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I manage to say before he makes his way toward the nurses’ station. Dameon gently turns me around in his arms and cradles my head, his comforting presence a balm to my frazzled nerves.
“Look at me. Beth is going to be fine. Just breathe… I’ve got you,” he soothes. “In this moment, nothing else matters.”
He’s right. Beth’s health is paramount right now. But his acknowledgment of that fact, and his willingness to put his own needs aside for the time being, means the world. Dameon’s been nothing but kind, attentive, and supportive. Every touch, every caress, feels intimate. He presses his lips to mine, and in that simple act, I find solace.
I’m fucked.
Every fiber of my being is screaming that this is real. There’s no aspect that feels transactional anymore. I can no longer mask this feeling as ignorant bliss. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, neither in a relationship nor with a client. Our connection runs soul deep.
I’msofucked.
“Hailee, Beth is settled in ICU if you want to see her now?” One of the nurses interrupts my inner freak-out.
“Go, I’ll wait for you out here,” Dameon says.
“Thank you,” I reply softly, pulling away from his embrace and following the nurse into the ICU. As I walk away, the weight of everything hits me like a ton of bricks.
I’m beyond fucked.
***
“Gin,” I declare, tossing my cards onto the bed.
“God, you suck! How do you keep on winning?”
“No, you suck. That’s how.”
“Whatever.” Beth rolls her eyes.
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” I shrug.
“Please don’t ever say that again,” she says flatly, and we both burst into laughter.
Beth throws her cards on the bed and I gather them up, shuffling. I glance at the time. It feels like we’ve been playing cards for hours, but it’s only been forty minutes. The clock and I are now mortal enemies, locked in a battle of wills over the passage of time.
“How long is this going to take?” she whines.
