The problem was that we were still good together. Too good. In the OR, I could predict his movements before he made them.The slight shift of his weight before he requested an instrument. The pause he took before making a critical decision, eyes narrowing as he ran through possibilities. The specific tone he used when coaching residents through complicated procedures, patient but firm.
Five years hadn't erased that knowledge. If anything, distance had sharpened it. I noticed things about him now that I'd taken for granted during our marriage. The way he hummed under his breath during long surgeries, so quiet only someone standing close enough to hear would catch it. How he always thanked the scrub nurses by name. Or the way his whole body relaxed the moment a patient stabilized, tension draining out of him like water from a sink.
I noticed, and I hated that I did.
But I couldn't seem to stop.
"Clamp," Cassian said during a particularly complicated trauma case. It was a motorcycle accident, with multiple internal injuries. It required perfect synchronization between everyone in the room.
I already had the instrument in my hand.
Our eyes met over the patient, and something passed between us. Not resentment or anger. Just the quiet understanding of two people who'd spent years learning each other's rhythms—and still remembered.
"Nice catch," he said.
I smirked under my mask. "You're predictable."
"Or you're paying too much attention."
I didn't have a response for that, so I focused on the surgery instead. The patient's spleen was ruptured and his liver was lacerated. His chances of survival were dropping with every minute that passed. I let the work consume me and the familiar rhythm of surgery pushed everything else to the back of my mind.
In the OR, there was no room for the past. Only the present moment, the patient on the table, and the life hanging in the balance.
We saved him. Barely, but we did—after four hours of surgery, three units of blood, a small miracle of timing, and skill that left us both exhausted and quietly triumphant.
Later, in the scrub room, I stood at the sink with hot water running over my hands, trying to shake the feeling of Cassian's gaze.
He was standing beside me, staring in the mirror. Our eyes met in the reflection, and he looked away quickly, fumbling with the soap dispenser like he'd forgotten how to use it.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just..." He shut off the water, and wouldn't quite meet my gaze. "You've gotten better. At the technical stuff, I mean. You were always good, but now you're." He stopped, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Reallygood."
I raised an eyebrow. "Better than you?"
He smiled. It was genuine and almost shy, the smile I remembered from a hundred quiet moments during our marriage, when he'd say something earnest and then get embarrassed about his own sincerity.
"I wasn't going to say that," he replied. "But sure. If it helps you sleep at night."
"I sleep fine."
I turned to face him, suddenly aware of how small the scrub room was and how close we were standing. I could almost remember what it felt like to be near him.
"Dr. Karras?" A resident appeared in the doorway, looking apologetic. "Patient in Bay 2 needs an attending."
I stepped back from Cassian so quickly I nearly knocked over the soap dispenser. "I'll be right there."
When I glanced back, he was staring at his hands like he'd forgotten how they worked.
I fled.
There was no other word for it. I walked out of that scrub room like the building was on fire, and I didn't stop until I reached the Bay 2. I quickly checked the patient, and ensured he was heading to the physicians' lounge on the third floor. The room was empty except for Mireya, sitting in the corner with a medical journal and a cup of coffee.
She looked up when I entered. Her dark eyes swept over me once, before she set down her journal.
"You look like you need caffeine," she said. "Or alcohol. Possibly both."
"Caffeine will do."
