She walked toward me, shutting the door close. Her scrubs were stained with blood. Her hair was escaping its bun, dark red strands falling around her face. She looked exhausted and devastated and so painfully beautiful it made my throat dry.
"Cassian, I'm so sorry. I was about to leave, I swear. I was walking to my car when the call came, and I couldn't just ignore it. He would have died if I hadn't stayed."
I stared at her, nodding. "I know."
"I forgot. I'm the worst."
"Calla."
"No, I am. I forgot our anniversary. Our second anniversary. You made reservations, didn't you? At Lucia's. That's why you're wearing the blue tie."
She noticed the tie. Somehow, that made it worse.
I wanted to argue with her and tell her that it wasn't fine. I wanted to ask her if she even wanted to be married to me anymore, or if I was just another obligation she kept forgetting to cancel.
But she looked shattered. Genuinely. Her armor was down, and underneath it was a woman who was drowning in guilt she didn't know how to express.
I couldn't be angry at that. I didn't have it in me.
"The guy going to make it?" I asked instead.
The shift in topic startled her. She blinked, processing, then nodded slowly. "Probably. If the next twenty-four hours go well. We had to resect part of his bowel, but we saved most of it."
"Good."
"Cassian..."
I sighed. "Come here."
I opened my arms, and she hesitated for only a second before stepping into them. Her body sagged against mine, all the tension draining out of her at once. I realized she was trembling, shivers running through her frame that she was trying to hide.
I held her tighter.
"I'm sorry," she whispered against my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
"I know."
"I wanted to be there. I wanted to have dinner with you and drink wine and celebrate like normal people do. I wanted..."
She trailed off. I waited, but she didn't finish the sentence.
That was Calla. She’d always start talking about thoughts she couldn't complete, leaving sentences half-spoken because finishing them would require vulnerability she didn't know how to give.
I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the smell of antiseptic and hospital soap that clung to her hair. Underneath it, barely there, was the citrus scent of her shampoo. A small reminder of the woman beneath the surgeon.
"Let's go home," I said.
She pulled back enough to look at me. Her eyes were wet, though no tears had fallen. Calla didn't cry. Not in front of people, anyway. She saved her grief for moments when no one could witness it.
"You're not angry?"
"I'm tired," I admitted. "And disappointed. But I'm not angry."
"You should be angry."
"Maybe." I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. "But being angry won't give us our anniversary back. It'll just make us both miserable."
She stared at me like I'd said something in a language she didn't speak. As if forgiveness was a concept she couldn't quite wrap her mind around.
