Destiny came apart in pieces and Nurse Rourke took her place.
Hair covered.
Hands sterile.
Eyes clear.
Heart locked behind bone.
The OR lights were bright enough to erase mercy.
Dylan lay beneath them, draped and prepped, too still for a man who had once filled every room like trouble with a pulse. Machines breathed and beeped and monitored. Blood products moved. Instruments passed. Voices stayed clipped.
Precise.
Cold.
Necessary.
I assisted where I was needed. Anticipated. Passed. Counted. Held. Moved. Watched. Did not think of his mouth on mine at a grave. Did not think of Cabo. Did not think of him calling me Beautiful under palm leaves. Did not think of him walking away in Santa Monica.
Did not.
Did not.
Did not.
Except the human mind was a traitor, and mine had always loved knives.
I thought of everything.
His hands washing red paint off mine.
His face when Nate shaved his beard in Cabo and he looked younger, sharper, almost too beautiful to be real.
His voice saying, You’ve got blank pages.
His eyes in Santa Monica when he admitted he knew about Cupcake and matcha and my Dean’s List.
His back as he walked away.
Again.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
The surgeon’s voice cut through the memories.
I snapped fully back.
The monitor changed tone.
Not enough.
Too much.
The room tightened.
“Come on,” someone muttered.
