No Beautiful.
That was good.
That was terrible.
“Nurse Rourke,” he rasped.
The formal name slid over my skin like a punishment we both deserved.
“Patient Degan,” I said.
His mouth almost moved.
Not quite a smile.
More like pain remembering humor existed.
I walked to the monitor first because numbers were safer than faces. Heart rate slightly elevated. Oxygen okay. Blood pressure acceptable. Temperature normal. I entered what needed entering, felt him watching every movement, and told myself I did not notice.
Impossible.
Dylan’s gaze had weight.
It moved over me with maddening restraint, not careless, not crude, not even obvious enough to call him on it. But I felt it. At the side of my face. Along my hands. Down to the diamond studs in my ears, then away before he gave himself up completely.
He was engaged.
I was at work.
Georgia’s sweater hung over the chair between us like a flag planted in conquered territory.
I pulled on gloves.
“How’s your pain?”
“Manageable.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
I typed seven into the tablet.
His brow twitched. “Didn’t say seven.”
“You have a tell.”
“I do not.”
“You get meaner around six and quiet around seven.”
His eyes held mine.
For one second, something almost soft moved through them.
“You remember that much about me?”
The question was quiet.
