Once she gets ready, I take her to work on the bike.
She hesitates at first about her scrubs getting dirty, but something changes. In a moment, she’s strapping on the helmet, hands steady, like she trusts me with her life. That thought hits harder than it should.
She climbs on behind me, arms slipping around my waist, body fitting to mine like it always has. Familiar. Right.
The ride is quiet. Wind. Engine. The steady drum of my heart.
When we pull in, I kill the bike and help her off. She takes her helmet off, hair already braided, she just pins the edges again, eyes bright, and a smile that I know is meant for me alone.
Her gaze moves to over my shoulder in the distance. That’s when I see him.
Dr. Reeves stands near the entrance, coat over his arm, posture just a little too still. He watches Danae like she’s something he’s already decided belongs to him.
I feel it immediately. That low, animal warning hum. The lion inside me coming alive into protective mode.
Danae thanks me, kisses my cheek, turns to go, and I catch her wrist.
“Hey,” I stop her for a second.
She looks back, confused.
I don’t give myself time to think. I pull her in and kiss her. Not hurried. Not sloppy.
Deliberate.
Her body responds instantly, softening, her mouth opening under mine like she knows exactly what I’m saying without words. My hand slides to her lower back, holding her there, grounding her against me.
This is mine.
Not ownership like property. Claim. Because she matters to me, I claim this feeling. I own my emotion, the care I have for her, it matters.
When we break apart, I meet Reeves’s eyes over her shoulder.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
Unspoken conversation complete, I give my attention back to Danae only when the man moves giving us our privacy back.
Danae exhales, forehead resting against my chest, unaware of the silent exchange happening over her head. I brush my thumb along her jaw, gentle now.
“I’ll be here when you’re done,” I tell her.
She nods, squeezes my hand once, and walks inside.
Reeves is long gone by the time she makes it inside.
Good.
The night drags.
I sit on my bike, helmet hooked on the handlebars, watching nurses come and go, watching shadows move behind glass. Every so often, I replay the look on his face.
Not anger.
Calculation.
That bothers me more.
