It still ruined me.
The door opened again.
For one stupid, impossible second, my heart leapt.
Destiny.
Then Georgia stepped inside with a coffee tray in one hand, a paper bag tucked against her hip, and a face so pale the guilt hit before she spoke.
She had heard something.
Not everything.
Maybe enough.
Her eyes moved to me first.
Then to the door behind her.
Then back to my mouth.
I knew the second she saw it.
Not bruised. Not obvious. Not some movie-style evidence. But Georgia knew me. Knew the guarded set of my jaw. Knew guilt when it had nowhere left to hide. Knew when a room held a woman’s absence like smoke.
She set the coffee tray down on the table beside the chair.
Carefully.
Too carefully.
The paper bag followed.
Her hands were shaking.
“Georgia,” I said.
Her name came out rough.
She flinched anyway.
Not because it sounded cruel.
Because it sounded guilty.
She stood at the foot of my bed, still wearing the ring I had given her. The diamond caught the ICU light, bright and wrong, a promise shining in a room full of lies.
“I came back early,” she said.
My throat tightened.
“I see that.”
Her mouth trembled, but she nodded like my useless answer confirmed something she already knew.
“I forgot my phone charger in the waiting area,” she said. “I was coming back to grab it before I went to shower.”
She looked toward the door again.
