Page 60 of Vital Signs
My hand twitched.
Empty.
Where her fingers had wrapped around mine. Where her warmth had steadied my breathing. Where her touch had made the room smaller and safer.
“She was here,” I murmured, trying to blink her back to my side. But the words felt strange in my mouth. Like I was stating a fact to myself as much as to anyone else.
The nurse looked over. “Dr. Volkov stepped out,” she said gently. “She’ll be back.”
Stepped out.
The phrase felt inadequate. Too small for what it meant.
My chest tightened. “She was… touching me,” I said, frowning slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “That was helping.”
The nurse’s expression softened. “I know.” And things went hazy again.
The same older nurse was adjusting something at my IV when I opened my eyes.
Time felt wrong. Stretched. Folded over itself. I couldn’t tell how long Anya had been gone, only that it felt too long. Long enough for the room to lose whatever shape it had taken when she was here.
My mouth felt dry. “She’s not back yet,” I asked, shaking my head.
It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact. A small one. A heavy one. The nurse glanced at me. “Dr. Volkov’s shift ended, Dr. Vaughn,” she said softly. “She’s off for the day.”
Off.
“She said she wouldn’t go far,” I murmured, frowning faintly, trying to remember a promise. Like if I concentrated hard enough, I could pull her back with memory alone.
“She only stepped out about ten minutes ago, Doctor,” the nurse said. “You’re being well taken care of.”
I didn’t doubt that. It just didn’t help. My hand twitched against the blanket, fingers curling uselessly where hers had been. “I don’t like it,” I mumbled, feeling myself pout like a petulant child.
The nurse paused. “Don’t like what, Doctor?”
“That she’s not here,” I managed. Simple. Unfiltered. The morphine stripped away the professional armor and left the truth standing there in the hospital light. “She makes it easier.”
The nurse’s expression softened in that way people get when they see something personal slip through. “You have a lot of people who care about you,” she said.
I shook my head slightly. “That’s not what I mean.”
My gaze drifted toward the door again. The closed door. The wrong door. The door she should be coming through.
“I need my Anya,” I said, and the words surprised even me.
They came out soft.
Unconscious.
Possessive in a way I no longer had the energy to censor.
The nurse went very still.
“Your Anya,” she repeated gently.
“Yes,” I scoffed, as if it were obvious. Like she was a category of person, not just a name. “She knows how to make it quiet. In here.” I lifted my free hand slightly, gesturing vaguely toward my head. “And in here.” A weak tap against my chest.
The nurse didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either. She just watched me for alongmoment, measuring something.
