"Maybe she should decide what she deserves." He opened the door. "Just think about it, Riv."
He left me in my office, anger still burning through me.
But underneath it was something else. Something colder and heavier than anger, something that had been quietly building for weeks and had chosen this particular moment to make itself impossible to ignore.
Fear.
Real fear that Mireya would take August's offer and leave.
And the worst part was that I understood exactly why.
I had been telling myself a clean story for months. That I had brought her into my home for practical reasons. That I noticed her because she was exceptional at her job. That the way my apartment felt different with her in it was simply the effect of having another person around, of Emma being happier, of the penthouse feeling less like a space I occupied and more like somewhere someone actually lived.
I had been lying to myself with great dedication and moderate success.
The truth was simpler and more inconvenient than any of that.
I was falling for her.
Had been falling, probably, since a scrub room at two in the morning when she had pressed two ibuprofen into my palm without being asked and said goodnight like it cost her nothing. Maybe before that. Maybe since the first time I had looked up across a surgical field and found her already looking back, calm and certain and completely unafraid of me in a way that almost no one was.
She had walked into my carefully ordered life and quietly, without permission, made it better. And now August was offering her a door out and I was sitting here understanding for the first time that I did not want her to take it.
Not because of Emma. Not because of the OR.
Because of her.
Because the thought of this apartment without her in it felt like something being taken, and I had no right to feel that way, and I felt it anyway, completely and without apology, and I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
I stayed late finishing paperwork, reviewing patient charts, scheduling surgeries for the following month—anything to avoid going home. Because I had no idea what I'd say when I saw her.
The hospital emptied around me. Day shift leaving. Night shift arriving. Quiet settling over the surgical floors.
My phone buzzed around eight.
Emma
When are you coming home?
Riven
Soon.
Emma
Mireya and I are making dinner. Well. Trying to. It's going badly.
Emma
Never mind. We burned it. Ordering pizza instead.
Emma
Are you okay?
I stared at that last message.
Was I okay?
