Patient stable.Hepatic artery repaired.Working on liver now.Still critical.
“They’ve repaired the arterial damage,” I announce, my doctor’s voice taking over, clinical and detached as if discussing any other patient.“They’re working on his liver now.He’s…” I swallow hard, the professional facade cracking.“He’s still critical, but he’s hanging in there.”
Shaylin makes a sound, half sob, half prayer, her fingers twisting the silver rings she wears until her knuckles turn white.Butcher moves to her side, his massive frame somehow gentle as he kneels beside her chair.
“Our boy’s tough,” he reminds her, taking her hands in his.“Gets that from you.”
She nods, tears tracking silently down her face.“And his stubborn streak is all yours.”
The exchange feels intensely private, a glimpse into decades of partnership forged through hardship and love.I look away, giving them what little privacy the crowded waiting room allows.
My gaze falls on the surgical doors again, willing them to open with good news.Behind them, Zach lies cut open, his life in the hands of surgeons who, until yesterday, were my colleagues.The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m now on this side of the doors, helpless and waiting, when I’ve spent years being the one who delivers news, good or bad, to anxious families.
A hand settles on my shoulder, startling me from my thoughts.Livie stands beside me, offering a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.
“You need to eat,” she says, pressing it into my hands.“Doctor or not, you’ll pass out if you keep this up.”
I want to refuse, the thought of food makes my stomach turn, but the practicality of her concern penetrates my fog.Zach will need me strong when he wakes up.When, not if.I cling to that certainty with desperate conviction.
“Thanks,” I manage, unwrapping the sandwich and forcing myself to take a bite.It tastes like nothing, texture without flavor, but I chew mechanically, knowing my body needs the fuel.
“He talked about you, you know,” Livie says quietly, leaning against the wall beside me.“Even before you two got together.For years.I was in school and I would hear him talking about you all the time.Mind you, I’m younger than the two of you, but I heard.”
I pause mid-chew, looking at her with surprise.“He did?”
She nods, a small smile softening her worried expression.“He’d come back from following you home, all broody and quiet.Tiana would tease him about his ‘doctor stalking,’ and he’d get this look…” She gestures vaguely.“Like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t.”
“I had no idea,” I admit, the sandwich forgotten in my hand.“All that time, I thought he barely knew I existed.”
Livie’s laugh is gentle, lacking its usual brashness.“Xavier, that man has been yours since high school.The rest of us were just waiting for you both to figure it out.”
Her words settle in my chest, a warm weight against the cold fear that’s been my constant companion.I think of Zach’s face when he claimed me publicly, the fierce certainty in his eyes when he called me his partner.The memory aches with a sweetness that’s almost unbearable now.
“I can’t lose him,” I whisper, the admission scraping my throat raw.“Not now.Not when we’ve just found each other.”
“You won’t,” Livie says with such conviction that I almost believe her.“Slaughter doesn’t break promises, and he promised you tonight.”She squeezes my arm once before moving back to join the others, leaving me with my thoughts and half-eaten sandwich.
The doors swing open, and everyone freezes.A nurse, not Dr.Patel, just a surgical nurse I vaguely recognize, steps through, scanning the room until she spots me.
“Dr.Blane?”she calls, and suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare as she approaches.Her expression gives nothing away, the neutral face all medical professionals perfect for delivering news of any kind.
I force myself forward on legs that feel disconnected from my body.Around me, the room has gone silent, every eye watching this exchange, every breath held.
“Yes?”My voice sounds strange to my own ears, distant and thin.
“Dr.Patel asked me to update you personally,” she says, her voice pitched low enough so that only I can hear what I already know.
I nod, processing the information through my medical knowledge rather than my emotions.“His cardiac status?”
“Stable for now.They had to transfuse eight units, but his pressure is holding.”She hesitates, then adds, “Dr.Patel wanted you to know that he’s fighting hard.Harder than she expected, given the extent of his injuries.”
A sound escapes me, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.“Of course he is,” I manage.“Stubborn bastard.”
The nurse’s professional mask slips just slightly, a flash of sympathy in her eyes.“She’ll send another update when they begin closing.It’s going to be a while yet.”
I thank her, turning back to the waiting room where everyone watches me with desperate hope.“Surgery’s going well,” I report, my voice steadier than I feel.“They’ve repaired the major bleeding and are working on his liver now.He’s stable.”
The collective exhale is audible, tension releasing from the room like air from a punctured balloon.Not gone completely—we all know “stable” in surgical terms is a relative state—but eased enough that people shift in their seats, quiet conversations resuming.
