I laughed because he expected me to.
I did everything right.
Every single thing.
And inside, I kept seeing Dylan’s hand.
Still.
Held.
Not mine.
Around three in the morning, Lily found me in the supply room staring at a shelf of saline flushes like they had personally betrayed me.
She stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
“You saw him.”
I reached for a box I did not need. “Saw who?”
“Do not insult me while I’m running on stale coffee and righteous concern.”
“I’m working.”
“You are hiding in a supply room.”
“I’m restocking.”
“You’re holding pediatric nasal cannulas.”
I looked down.
I was.
I put them back.
Lily folded her arms.
She had lost the soft hospital cardigan she wore on breaks, and her scrub top had a smear of something suspicious near the hem. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose. She looked exhausted and deeply dangerous in the way only a tiny nurse from Idaho could after thirteen hours of other people’s emergencies.
“I saw his fiancée,” I said.
Lily’s face softened.
I hated that.
Compassion was dangerous. It found cracks.
“Des.”
“No. Don’t.” I held up one hand. “Not yet.”
She closed her mouth.
I leaned back against the shelves and pressed my palms flat against the metal edge behind me.
“He was awake,” I said. “Georgia was holding his hand. He saw me.”
