The nurse hesitated. Just a fraction. Then, carefully, “He said he needs you. He said he’s better when you’re there.”
That’s when my breath caught. My shoulders sagged a little, like the last thin layer of composure had finally peeled away. “And,” the nurse added softly, “he called youmy Anya.”
That did it. I pressed my lips together hard, but my eyes still shone. I dropped my gaze to the floor, staring at a dried smear of blood on my shoe as if it might give me instructions on how to navigate this.
“I didn’t go home,” I whispered, the words tumbling out of me like a confession. “I couldn’t.”
The nurse nodded, a knowing look twinkling in her eyes. “I figured.”
We stood there in the quiet hum of the hospital. Machines. Voices. Life continuing in parallel. “He’s not upset with you,” the nurse said. “He was very clear about that. He just… wants you there.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m not supposed to?—”
“I’m not asking you to break policy, if there evenisa policy for this…” the nurse said gently. “I’m just telling you what my patient asked for. What you do with that is up to you.”
“Is he okay?” I asked. My doctor’s voice slipping back out of habit. Out of fear.
“He’s stable,” the nurse said. “In pain. Scared. On morphine. And very aware that you’re gone.”
I nodded slowly, lips pursed, and my hands trembled as I pushed myself up off the floor. I brushed at my scrubs absently, as if I could wipe the blood and the exhaustion and the emotional wreckage away with a few swipes of my palm.
I couldn’t. But I stood anyway. “I’ll go back in,” I said.
Not because I was on duty. Not because of policy. But because I was already his.
The nurse stepped aside to let me pass. And as I walked toward the ICU doors, the nurse watched me go with a look that said one clear, undeniable thing:
This is not a fling.
This is not casual.
This is already a story everyone in this building is going to know.
And me, stupid, naïve me, with blood on my scrubs and love on my face, didn’t even try to hide it.
I paused with my hand on the handle, just for a second, gathering myself. My reflection in the small window was a mess — wrinkled, blood-stained scrubs, hair half-loose, dark circles under my eyes, face pulled tight with exhaustion and something far more dangerous.
Feeling.
I didn’t fix any of it. Didn’t smooth my hair, didn’t straighten my badge.
I opened the door as I was.
The room was dimmer now. Quieter. The hum of machines, steady and soft. A nurse stood near the monitors, charting, but my eyes went straight to the bed.
To him.
Desmond looked smaller in the hospital bed than I’d ever seen him. Pale. Lines on his face deeper from pain and medication. One arm heavy on the blanket, the other with IV lines running from it. The space where his leg should have been, hidden under layers of sheets and bandages.
And my chest tightened. I moved closer without thinking.
His eyes were half-closed, but they opened when I reached the bedside. Focused slowly. Then?—
Recognition.
Relief.
It was unmistakable.
