Page 56 of Vital Signs
Something tight and warm twisted in my chest.
Anya.
Relief washed through me first. Real, grounding. She washere. That meant I’d made it through whatever surgery they’d given me. That meant I was alive. That meant?—
My leg.
The thought came back, heavier this time.
I tried again. Focused harder. The way I told patients to. Visualize it. Command it.
Nothing.
The sensation was still there, though. A deep, aching presence. Pain that seemed to radiate from a place my brain insisted still existed.It throbbed, low and furious. A pressure that made me want to grit my teeth.
I frowned, confused, and my gaze drifted downward, slow and reluctant. The sheets draped up over my waist. And everything looked… normal. Still whole from this angle. Still arranged the way it always had been.
Don’t be dramatic, I told myself.You’ve seen this a hundred times. Nerve damage. Post-op numbness. It takes time.
But still.
The buzzing wrongness didn’t fade. I shifted my hand slowly, deliberately, dragging my fingers down the sheet. Over my hip. Over my thigh. But the shape wasn’t right, and the sheet dipped.
Then ended.
My hand kept going and found nothing where something should have been.
Air.
Empty space.
My fingers curled again, reflexively, grasping at fabric; if I pressedharder,it would appear.
It didn’t.
My breath hitched, shallow and sharp, the kind that barely made it past the throat.
Anya stirred at the change in the room. The monitor. The shift in energy. She lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes, and her gaze went straight to me. “Desmond,” she breathed, instantly awake.
She closed the small distance in two steps and was at my side, both hands on me before I could even fully open my eyes. One cupped my cheek, warm and steady, her thumb brushing lightly along my jaw. The other slid into my hair, fingers threading through it, grounding, familiar, andreal.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You’re here. You’re with me. You’re safe.”
Safe.
Her hand in my hair anchored me more than any monitor ormedication, or morphine drip ever could. My eyes stayed on the ceiling. I couldn’t bear to look at her. But I leaned into her touch without thinking. Like my body recognized hers as a fixed point in a shifting universe.
“My leg,” I said quietly.
Not a question.
Anya’s thumb stilled against my cheek for half a second.
Then she smoothed it again, slower, more deliberate. Her palm remained warm against my skin. Her fingers combed gently through my beard, the way she’d done once, absentmindedly, during a late-night charting session when neither of us had acknowledged what this meant.
“I can’t feel it,” I murmured. “My foot.”
Her breath caught. “You’re safe,” she breathed, repeating herself, yet notansweringme. Her voice was steady, but her hands betrayed her — holding me just a little tighter, as if she truly believed she could keep me whole through touch alone.
