Degan.
Not Dylan.
Not Beautiful’s Dylan.
Not the man whose hand I had kissed in the dark.
Patient Degan.
Room 412.
Critical but improving.
Fiancée at bedside.
Complications possible.
Heart dangerous.
I stared at the tablet too long.
Charge’s expression changed, just enough to tell me she knew more than she was saying. Hospitals were like small towns with worse lighting. Secrets did not stay secret; they just got charted under professional silence.
“I can put someone else in there when I can,” she said, quieter. “Right now, I need hands.”
Hands.
That was what I had.
Hands that knew how to take vitals, check dressings, adjust tubing, document drainage, assess pain, monitor neuro responses, and pretend they did not remember the warmth of Dylan’s hair sliding between their fingers.
I took the tablet.
“Of course.”
Charge gave me one long look.
“Routine checks only.”
“I know.”
“Professional.”
My mouth tightened. “I know.”
She nodded once, not unkindly, then moved away.
I stood there with the tablet in my hand and the strange urge to laugh.
Professional.
Right.
Because professionalism was apparently the thin paper gown I was supposed to wear over a heart that kept trying to bleed through.
I waited longer than I needed to before going in.
Cowardly, maybe.
