Mike POV
The white linoleum floors reflected the early afternoon sunlight that crept in through the window slats. It had been nearly two weeks since Eloise’s surgery, and the air in her hospital room had changed, less sterile, more lived-in. A small bouquet of artificial tulips sat in a glass vase on her bedside table, their edges slightly frayed. The discharge papers were due tomorrow. The doctors had done their part. Now it was my turn.
Eloise shifted beneath the thin hospital sheets, propping herself up with a soft grunt. Her hair was gathered in a lazy braid, the kind she did when she didn’t want to try too hard but still wanted to feel like herself. I watched her fingers, always so delicate and artistic, now fidgeting with the corner of the sheet.
“Mike,” she said softly, her voice
