The dress zips up without a fight, which feels like the biggest win I’ve had all week.
It’s black. Strapless, but clean-cut straight across the bust. Structured and pretty, but professional enough to stand next to a donor without feeling like I’ve misjudged the dresscode.
My heels are high, my earrings subtle, and I smooth the fabric down over my hips to check my reflection, then do it again, adjusting the fall of it for the millionth time.
I’m not trying to impress anyone, but the mirror still says otherwise.
This is a hospital fundraiser. Patients’ families, colleagues, and donors will be there. I’m not dressing for attention.
Still, I hesitate longer than usual over my hair. Pull it back, then undo it and try again before settling somewhere in the middle—a small section up, but the rest tumbling down over my shoulders. It’s getting longer. I should probably book a trim.
I reapply lipstick I’ll inevitably forget to touch up, then exhale through my nose, trying to force the tightness in my chest to give.
I’m supposed to be there already to help with set-up, but my brain keeps stalling in neutral.
It’s not nerves—I’ve assisted in trauma surgeries with less prep than this. It’s more of a weird anticipation, like my body knows something’s coming but hasn’t told me what yet.
I grab my clutch from the kitchen counter and duck to look out the window to assess the weather. Cold, but not raining anymore. I glance up at the sky, which feels as though it’s cleared too quickly, based on the faint rainbow fracturing through the light. Then I double-check the notes I tucked into my purse, and pause when my phone lights up with a message.
REID HUTCHISON:You gonna be late, Havoc?
Me:Never been late a day in my life, Hutchison.
My mouth twitches before I can stop it, because he’s been doing this lately. Checking in. Never anything overtly personal—just updates, or questions and comments about the fundraiser. Always tied to the kid, the event, the fundraising goal.
But it’s consistent, and it’s not just the messages.
I’ve seen him at the clinic a lot over the past few weeks. Several times in the corridor after a session with Heidi, and once when he showed up early with my coffee order in hand. A double espresso with a dash of cream. Exactly right.
He softly knocked on my open office door, strolled in, and placed the takeaway cup down gently next to my keyboard.
“Did I order this?” I’d asked, squinting at it.
“No, just thought you’d like one.”
“How did you know what I drink?”
“Heidi mentioned it in passing during our last session.”
He’d said it so casually, with the shrug of a shoulder. As though he hadn’t knocked me completely off balance by remembering something so small about me.
And I don’t know what to do with that; him remembering things about me. I should probably be annoyed, or at least wary.
But instead, I keep catching myself wondering how he’ll look tonight. If we’ll get to talk much. Whether he’ll look at me the same way he did the last time I walked past him in the clinic hallway—as if I was someone he hadn’t figured out how to see more of, but was planning to.
God help me.
I shove the memory away and grab my coat.
***
The venue is already buzzing when I arrive.
Decorated to be modern in that carefully neutral way that makes everything feel expensive without leaning too far into it. There’s a branded photo backdrop at the front entrance, a silent auction table lined with bid sheets, and a raised dais that will eventually become the stage for speeches and presentations.
It’s perfect.
And I should know, because I’ve been involved with it for the past month—liaising between the oncology unit, the Moreno Clinic, and the fundraiser coordinator while pretending I haven’t been emotionally unraveling every time someone mentions pediatric amputation rates.
