Only His

It had been raining all day. Not the kind of rain that washed anything clean, just cold, relentless sheets that sank straight through your coat and into your bones. The whole city felt heavy. Like it was mourning something I couldn’t name. Maybe me.

My shoes made that awful wet squelch as I pushed through the hospital’s revolving doors. The fluorescent lights inside hit me like a slap. I didn’t bother shaking off the water. What was the point? I’d been soaked for days, by rain, by worry, by everything I couldn’t fix.

The elevator groaned on its way up. Sixth floor. Oncology.

I could still smell the burnt diner coffee on my sleeves, even after the double shift. My lower back throbbed, but I was past noticing pain. Or maybe I’d just gotten good at pretending it didn’t matter.

Lily was asleep when I got there. The blanket barely covered her. Her IV beeped steadily like it had learned how to breathe for her. Her hair was thinner this week, wisps stuck to her forehead like faded dreams.

I leaned down and kissed her temple. “I’m here, baby,” I whispered. “Always.”

She didn’t move.

I stood there for a minute, just watching. Making sure her chest still rose and fell. Like if I stared hard enough, she’d stay.

When I finally stepped out, the nurse at the desk offered a tired smile. “Rough night?”

I gave a small nod. “Same as always.”

That wasn’t true. Tonight was worse. The rent was due. I’d opened the hospital bill earlier, five red warning stamps across the top like they were shouting at me. I’d applied for two more jobs during my lunch break, anything that didn’t require a degree or dignity. Still nothing.

I dropped into the waiting room chair and pulled out my phone. The lock screen photo popped up: Lily and me at Coney Island last summer. She looked like herself then, sunburned, alive. She’d screamed so loud on the roller coaster the whole boardwalk turned.

That girl was vanishing right in front of me.

“Miss Reynolds?”

The voice came out of nowhere. Crisp. Male. Definitely not a nurse.

I turned and there he was. Tall. Black coat. Dry shoes. His whole presence didn’t belong in this hallway, like someone had cut him out of a magazine and pasted him here.

“Yes?” I said slowly.

He held out a card, gloved hand steady. “Mark Evans. I represent Mr. Damian Kingsley.”

I blinked. My brain tried to catch up. “The CEO?”