Human, definitely.
I checked another patient. Answered a call light. Refilled a water pitcher. Helped Lily hunt down a missing medication that turned out to be exactly where she had already looked twice because hospitals enjoyed gaslighting overworked nurses.
Finally, there was nothing left between me and Room 412 but my own dread.
I stopped outside his door.
Georgia was not in the chair.
That should have made it easier.
It didn’t.
Her sweater was still draped over the back of it. A tote bag sat tucked beneath the side table. A half-finished cup of coffee waited near the window. She had probably gone for breakfast, or a shower, or ten minutes to cry somewhere Dylan couldn’t see. She had earned that.
The empty chair felt worse than if she had been sitting in it.
It made the room too quiet.
Too open.
Too dangerous.
Dylan lay propped slightly against the pillows, pale but awake. Better than yesterday. Still rough. Still bruised by surgery, pain, and whatever stubborn bargain had kept him alive. His beard was darker against the hospital pallor of his skin. His hair was a mess. An IV line ran into one arm. The monitor beside him kept steady watch like it trusted machines more than men.
His eyes were closed.
I considered backing out.
Then they opened.
So much for that.
His gaze found me immediately.
Not slowly.
Not with confusion.
Immediately.
Like some part of him had known the second I stepped inside.
The air changed.
I hated that.
Loved it.
Hated that too.
“Morning,” I said, because I had a job and a voice and apparently those things still worked.
His eyes stayed on mine.
No smile.
No joke.
