Millie is silent against my side. She hasn’t said a word since we sat down. She just stares at a scuff mark on the linoleum floor, her body a coiled spring of tension.
I watch her from the corner of my eye. The pale, washed-out light makes her skin look almost translucent, and I can see faint blue shadows beneath her eyes. She’s exhausted.
I shouldn’t have kept her up so late. I guess I’m the selfish one.
The reminder of last night’s conversation before… well, everything, makes my chest constrict.
What isn’t she telling me?
Maybe I should’ve just let her talk it out.
I want to shake her, to demand she tell me what’s wrong, to take whatever is hurting her and crush it with my bare hands. But I don’t. I just sit here, feeling useless, and wrap my arm a little tighter around her.
“Cold?” I ask, my voice a low murmur.
She shakes her head, a small, jerky motion. “I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. She’s a million miles from fine, and every second I spend sitting here beside her, not knowing, feels like a failure.
I know I should push it. I decide not to.
My thumb traces circles on her shoulder, a useless, repetitive motion.
The child with the barking cough is crying now, a thin, miserable sound that grates on my already frayed nerves. The old man with the head wound has been called back, leaving a bloody smear on his chair that no one has bothered to wipe up. This place is a pit of despair, and we’re right at the bottom of it.
I’m about to suggest we just leave, to take our chances and go home, when a nurse in blue scrubs appears at the entrance to the waiting area. “Millie Harper?” she calls out.
Millie flinches beside me, her head snapping up. I squeeze her shoulder. “That’s us,” I say, helping her to her feet. My own muscles protest, stiff from sitting in the same position for so long.
The nurse gives us a quick, impersonal smile. “We can get you in now. Just for a quick check-up and some bloodwork. The doctor will see you in exam room three.”
Relief, sharp and potent, floods my system. “Thank you.”
Millie is quiet as we follow the nurse down a short, sterile-smelling hallway. The linoleum is squeaky clean under our feet, completely different from the grime of the waiting room.
The nurse stops at a door with a brass number three on it and pushes it open. “Right in here. The doctor will be with you shortly.”
I turn to Millie, my hands cupping her face. Her skin is still cool to the touch, her eyes wide and uncertain.
“I’m right here,” I tell her. “I’ll be right outside this door. Just go get checked out, and I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”
She nods, but her gaze is fixed on my lips. “You should get checked out too,” she whispers. “You were in the accident too.”
“Okay,” I agree without hesitation. “I will.”
I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering for a second longer than necessary. A reassurance. But then she does something that sends my world tilting on its axis.
She rises up on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
It’s not a passionate kiss. It’s not a kiss born of desire or longing. It’s quick, almost chaste, but it’s loaded with something I can’t quite name. A desperation. A plea.
And I can’t remember her ever doing that before. Not like this. Not in public, at least.
My mind goes blank. For a split second, all I can think is that she’s kissing me. My Millie is kissing me. But the giddiness, the rush of warmth I should feel, never comes. Instead, a cold, hard knot of dread forms in the pit of my stomach.
This is wrong.
This is all wrong.
