Wife.
That word had once meant late-night takeout eaten from cardboard containers, his head in my lap while he fell asleep over research papers. It had meant dancing barefoot in our kitchen during a thunderstorm. It had meant whispered promises at 2 a.m. when both of us were too tired to pretend medicine had not taken more from us than it gave.
Now it sounded like a credential he was trying to use to gain access.
Elena moved toward the door.
I stopped her.
“Wait.”
She turned back.
I swallowed against the pain in my throat. “Let him in.”
Her expression sharpened. “Amelia—”
“Not alone. You stay.”
She studied me for a long second, then nodded.
When the door opened, Cameron looked as though the night had carved pieces out of him.
His surgical cap was gone. His hair stood in uneven strands where he had run his hands through it. His white coat was wrinkled. There was a faint smear of something dark near his cuff, probably iodine, perhaps something else. His eyes were bloodshot.
Behind him, two security officers stood at the nurses’ station.
Cameron stepped into the room and stopped when he saw me awake.
His face crumpled.
“Amelia.”
