Impossible.
I tried to open my eyes.
Everything blurred.
White ceiling.
Blue scrubs.
Masks.
Gloved hands.
A curtain being shoved aside.
Someone calling for blood.
Someone else yelling that OR was ready.
Then a face came into view above mine.
Mostly covered by a mask. Hair tucked back. Eyes focused, fierce, wet with terror she was trying to bury under training.
Those eyes.
I knew those eyes.
The drugs were supposed to make things softer. Kinder. Less cruel. Instead, they handed me the one ghost I had spent years trying not to worship and put her right above me under ER lights.
“The hell?” I rasped.
The woman leaned closer. “Dylan, stay with me.”
Destiny.
Older.
Sharper.
In scrubs.
Her mother’s diamond studs in her ears.
Turquoise ring on one gloved finger? No. She wouldn’t wear it under gloves. My brain was inventing things now. Filling in the pieces it needed because blood loss made a man sentimental and stupid.
Beside her, another face appeared, glasses fogged slightly above a mask.
Lily.
Lila?
Whatever the hell her name was.
Idaho.
Cupcake.
Matcha.
