The doctor doesn’t rush it.
She stands at the foot of the bed with her tablet tucked under one arm, posture calm, expression soft in a way that makes my chest tighten instead of relax. It’s the kind of softness that doesn’t belong to routine reassurance. It belongs to moments that change people.
Damian is still beside me, hand resting on the edge of the mattress like he’s anchoring himself to something solid. I can feel the tension in him even without looking. The way his weight is angled forward. The way his fingers curl slightly, as if he’s bracing for impact.
“There’s something you need to know,” the doctor says.
My pulse spikes instantly. I feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the sudden way my body goes alert again after finally starting to rest. It’s like my nervous system
