As if being there meant you could stop the worst thing from happening.
My hands went where they were supposed to go. Vitals. Pressure. Assessment. Trauma protocol. My voice came out steady because training was merciful and cruel.
“Pressure is dropping.”
“Blood ready?”
“On the way.”
“OR status?”
“Room is clearing now.”
“Keep pressure.”
“I need suction.”
“Cut the shirt.”
His shirt was already mostly cut, but not enough. Trauma shears moved through fabric and blood. His skin beneath wastoo pale. His body too familiar and not familiar enough. Older than the last time I had seen him. Harder. Stronger maybe. Still Dylan. Still impossible.
His head shifted.
A sound caught in his throat.
I leaned closer before I could stop myself.
His lashes lifted.
Barely.
His gaze dragged through the light, unfocused, searching through blood loss and pain and whatever thin line kept him tethered to his body.
Then his eyes found mine.
Not fully.
But enough.
Enough to break me if I had let it.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. “Is that you?”
My heart cracked open right there in Trauma One.
Lily made a sound behind me.
I swallowed hard, forcing my hands not to shake.
“It’s me,” I said, voice low. “Dylan, listen to me. You’re at Albuquerque General. You were shot. We’re taking you to surgery.”
His mouth moved again.
No sound came out.
I wanted to touch his face.
I wanted to scream at him.
