Page 99 of Vital Signs
I nodded slowly, letting the gravity settle. “I… see it,” I whispered, fingers tightening around his. “And… thank you. For… all of it.”
He exhaled a quiet, measured breath. “Always. That’s what it means. Always.” He pulled my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against my skin.
The rest of the drive was silent, but it wasn’t empty. Every heartbeat, every quiet breath between us carried something heavier than words: trust, fear, and the kind of love that makes you willing to move mountains — or walk away from everything you’ve built — without hesitation.
Chapter 58
Anya
Ishould have gone home twenty minutes earlier.
That was my first coherent thought as I signed my last chart, flexed my aching fingers, and tried to convince my body that the shift was actually over. The fluorescent lights hummed like angry insects overhead. My scrubs smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. My brain felt packed with cotton.
The night shift always ended in that strange purgatory — not quite morning, not quite night — when the day crew drifted in smelling like fresh laundry and optimism while we crawled toward the exit like survivors of a small war.
I wanted a shower. Silence. Maybe Desmond’s couch and the sound of him breathing nearby, steady and warm and alive.
That was when I saw him.
He moved through the hallway with that same deliberate control he’d adopted since the accident — measured steps, quiet focus — but nothing about his presence made sense. He wasn’t on the schedule. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the hospital on his day off.
And he was walking straight toward HR.
The world narrowed around that detail like a camera lens tightening.
He carried a folder — thick and intentional. His shoulders were squared in that particular way I recognized asa decision already made. Determined in the most dangerous, self-sacrificing way possible.
My stomach dropped hard enough to make me dizzy. He didn’t see me at first. He kept moving, eyes forward, jaw tight. The frosted glass door with HUMAN RESOURCES printed across it loomed closer with every step.
Ohshit.
I moved before my brain could catch up with my body.
“Des.”
My voice came out sharper than intended — a blade slicing through the morning chatter. He stopped mid-stride. His shoulders went rigid, not guilt exactly, but caught in the act of something he hadn’t planned to explain yet.
He turned slowly. And the moment our eyes met, I knew. He hadn’t told me, and he hadn’t planned to.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, even though the answer stood ten feet behind him like a silent accusation.
His expression softened for half a second — relief flickering there because it was me — then settled back into that frightening calm he wore like armor. “I was going to call you,” he said.
“When?” I asked, stepping closer. My arms folded across my chest without permission, a shield I hadn’t consciously raised. “After you filed something? After you made decisions aboutuswithout me?”
The hallway noise faded to a dull roar behind my ears. Twelve hours awake. Too much adrenaline still humming in my veins. Too many unresolved fears sitting just beneath my skin. “This isn’t about cutting you out,” he said quietly. “It’s about protecting you.”
“I don’t need protecting like that,” I said, heat rushing up mythroat. “We said we were handling this together. We said, no more secrets. No more surprises.”
His jaw tightened. The muscle jumped once, twice. “We are together,” he said.
“No,” I said, gesturing toward the HR door. “You are about to walk into a closed room with paperwork I haven’t seen to make decisions that affect my career, my reputation, my life — and you didn’t think I deserved to be there?”
A nurse brushed past us with a polite excuse me. Someone laughed down the hall. A monitor alarm chirped faintly in the distance. The world kept moving while everything inside me went sharp and still.
He exhaled slowly, controlled. “I was going to disclose the relationship,” he said finally. “Before Frank escalates anything else. Before rumors reach you first. Before you hear something from someone in a hallway instead of from me.”
The memory hit like a bruise pressed too hard — the last time something exploded and I found out secondhand, the humiliation of whispered conversations and sideways looks.
