Rayne
Reed busied himself tucking my discharge folder into his messenger bag, still humming to himself with uncontainable excitement. He was already planning which takeout we’d order tonight, how he’d light candles in the bedroom and sprinkle rose petals on the floor and bed, make it “romantic but relaxing,” his words.
But even as I smiled and nodded, there was something clawing at me from the inside.
I couldn’t leave without saying thank you.
To her.
Amber.
It didn’t make sense. She’d made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with me—and I respected that. But I couldn’t walk out of this hospital and pretend like she hadn’t saved my life. Like she hadn’t stitched me back together with those tiny, fierce hands of hers.
I owed her something. A thank you. That’s all.
Just closure.
A gesture.
Nothing more.
“Hey,” I said, interrupting Reed mid-sentence. “Can you do me a favor and go pull the car around? I don’t want to be limping through the parking lot for an hour.”
Reed looked up.
