Page 39 of His to Protect
The door opened behind me.
Mireya entered, took the adjacent sink, and began washing without speaking.
We stood there in heavy silence—water running, steam rising, the weight of unspoken tension thick between us. All the distance I'd been maintaining. All the deliberate coldness. Just hanging there.
"That was excellent work," I said finally.
She looked over, brows lifting. "Thank you."
"Your retraction during the bleed. It was perfect. Gave me exactly what I needed."
"I figured that's what you needed," she said simply.
Silence descended again. I dried my hands, taking longer than necessary, delaying the inevitable.
“Dr. Cross?—”
“Riven,” I corrected quietly.
“Riven.” She turned off the water and faced me directly. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
"Then why were you treating me like that in there?”
I kept my face still. “Like what?”
“Like a stranger. Nurse Rosen. Short answers. Wouldn't look at me.” She crossed her arms. “We work better than that.”
We did. That was precisely the problem.
“Professional boundaries,” I said.
“You were being cold."
“Same thing.”
“It's really not.” Her voice remained calm but firm. “We're colleagues. We've established an effective working rhythm. There's no reason to freeze me out during surgery.”
There were numerous reasons. All of them centered on how acutely aware I was of her presence. How much I looked forward to seeing her. How badly I'd wanted to look at her during that surgery, to read her expressions, to connect beyond just surgical necessity. How dangerous all of that felt.
I didn't voice any of it.
"I was focused on the patient," I said. "That's all."
She studied me with those perceptive brown eyes that saw far too much.
"Okay," she said finally. "If you say so."
She left.
I stood there staring at my reflection in the mirror. Exhaustion was carved into my features, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
The afternoon dragged through patient rounds and chart reviews. I checked on Margaret in the ICU, and saw that she was stable and had good vitals. She'd make it.
I was heading back to my office when I saw him.
August stood near the nurses' station wearing an expensive tailored suit, looking exactly like what he was—a surgeon who'd built his entire career on my father's money and connections.
