God help me, I felt it.
She tried to pull back. “Let go.”
I should have.
I didn’t.
My eyes dropped to her lips.
Mistake.
They were right there. Bare. Soft. No lipstick, just a little dry from hospital air and too many hours without sleep. I remembered those lips under mine at her mother’s grave. Trembling. Warm. Brave. I remembered Cabo and all the reasons I had stopped. I remembered Santa Monica and all the reasons I had left.
I remembered her whispering I love you when she thought I couldn’t answer.
“Stop this, Dylan,” she said.
There it was.
My name.
Not Patient Degan.
Not professional distance.
Dylan.
I let the sound of it drag through me like a match over dry paper.
“There it is,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “There what is?”
“My name.”
She pulled harder against my hold. I let her move just enough that she knew she could get free if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
“Beautiful,” I said.
Her face changed.
Pain first.
Then anger.
Good.
Anger was safer than what had been there before.
“How much drugs did the last nurse give you?” she asked, voice sharp. “Let me check your chart.”
She reached for the tablet with her free hand.
I did not let go of the wrist I had.
“Dylan.”
