The corner of his mouth moves, just slightly, in the way I've come to recognize. Amusement, or something close to it.
“You didn’t overstep," he says. "We’re going to be married; you can kiss me whenever you want."
The knot in my stomach loosens a little. I want to ask him why he hasn’t kissed me, why he has barely touched me, but I don’t think that’s a conversation to have just before surgery.
We leave at six.
The clinic is a low stone-faced building behind automatic gates, the kind of place that doesn't advertise itself. Akyl parks close to the entrance and cuts the engine and we sit for a moment in the quiet.
"Ready?" he says.
I take a breath. "As I'm going to be."
Inside, the reception desk is warm and hushed. A woman greets us by name. NotMiss Bontoft,notthe eight o'clock excision.By name, because someone, presumably Akyl, made sure she would. I notice this the way I've been noticing all his small adjustments. Quietly, without pointing at them, the way you notice something good and want to hold it carefully.
A nurse takes me through to the pre-op area at seven-fifteen. She's efficient and kind in equal measure. Takes my vitals, checks my chart, explains what's going to happen in plain language without medical jargon. She leaves me to change into a gown and tells me someone will come for me in twenty minutes.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the paper gown and the non-slip socks and I let myself be frightened. I let myself feel the honest fear of someone about to be put to sleep and cut open who doesn't know, can't know, whether the relief they've been promised will actually come through. I've been promised things before. I've learned not to count on them.
But Dr. Marsh saidexcellent.And Akyl made this happentodaywith a single phone call.
Maybe this is what it looks like when things actually work out.
The curtain opens and Akyl's head appears, his expression carefully neutral.
"I told them I needed two minutes," he says.
"And they let you back here?"
He comes in and lets the curtain fall behind him. Stands at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets and just looks at me. His jaw is set. He's doing something emotionally effortful and he's not trying to hide it, which feels important.
"Everything is prepared for your recovery," he says. "The room. The medications. The follow-up appointments. You won't have to manage any of it."
Part of me already knew that would be the case. But I was too scared to trust it. "Thank you."
"Marsh is the best there is." A pause. "He knows how important this is for you."
He steps closer and brings one hand to the side of my face, his thumb resting against my cheekbone. His palm is warm and slightly rough and the touch is so deliberate it feels like a sentence he's been working out for some time.
"Come back to me," he says. "After."
I put my hand over his and press it there. "I'll be in the next room."
"I know where you'll be." He holds my gaze for a moment, then drops his hand and steps back. The control slides back into place like a coat being straightened. "Tell them if you're in pain. Don't downplay it for anyone."
"I haven't downplayed anything for you yet."
"No." He's almost at the curtain. He looks back at me one last time. "I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Then he's gone.
I sit in the quiet and press my hand flat against my chest where the fear has been replaced by a settled warmth.
I'm not in love with him. It's too early for that. I know the difference between gratitude and love, between attraction and something that goes deeper.
But I think I could be.
The thought arrives without fanfare, twenty minutes before surgery.
