Arjun nods, recognizing the deflection but allowing it. "We're still on for lunch?"
"If Cheryl's case doesn't explode." I back away, grateful for the reprieve. "And Arjun? Not a word of this to anyone."
"My lips are sealed." He makes a locking motion over his mouth, then immediately ruins it by adding, "Unlike yours all weekend, apparently."
I flip him off and turn toward Cheryl's room, my professional mask sliding back into place with each step. Cheryl’s sleeping, or appears to be. Her body looks impossibly small against the white hospital sheets. Her skin has taken on that distinctive translucence of the seriously ill, blue veins visible at her temples where her hair lies flat and dull. In the week since I last examined her, she seems to have shed pounds she can’t afford to lose. Fuck. We're missing something crucial, something that's stealing her away one cell at a time.
I move silently to the monitoring equipment, checking her vitals. Then I flip through her chart, scanning the night nurse's notes. Refused dinner. Mild disorientation at three in the morning. Two episodes of tremors.
My jaw tightens as I pull up her labs on the tablet. The latest results don't make sense with our current theory, subtle shifts in her electrolytes that point to something systemic rather than neurological. Every new piece of data tightens the knot in my chest. I've been working on her case for weeks, trying every diagnostic avenue, every treatment protocol that might remotely apply. Nothing's working.
"Well, well," a raspy voice interrupts my thoughts. "Looks like someone finally got some."
My head snaps up to find Cheryl watching me through half-lidded eyes, a ghost of her usual mischief playing at the corners of her mouth. She lifts herself on frail arms, the movement visibly costing her strength she doesn't have to spare.
"Ms. DuBois." I clear throat in a piss-poor attempt to cover the surprise. "You're awake."
"And you're glowing." She settles back against her pillows, studying me with an unnerving perception that illness hasn'tdulled. "Don't look so shocked. I spent years teaching hormonal teenagers to arabesque. I know the look of someone who's been properly kissed."
Heat climbs my neck, and I needlessly adjust my tie. "How are you feeling this morning?"
Cheryl smiles that knowing smile of hers. "That's what I like about you, Sebastian. Always trying to maintain that perfect control." She waves a thin hand dismissively. "I feel like shit, but that's not nearly as interesting as whatever, or whoever, put that softness in your eyes."
I move to the side of her bed, determined to remain professional despite the urge to smile at her bluntness. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"
"Seven when I move, five when I don't." Her answer comes without hesitation. The honesty surprises me—Cheryl usually downplays her discomfort, telling us she's just fine even when her vitals say otherwise. This admission is concerning. "Now, don't change the subject. Was it Birdie?"
The monitor beeps softly as her heart rate increases slightly. I frown, checking the connection to make sure it's not a technical error. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Mmm." Cheryl's eyes crinkle at the corners. "So it was her. Good. She'll keep you honest."
I adjust the flow rate on her IV, focusing on the task to hide my expression. "We need to talk about your lab results, Ms. DuBois. I'm concerned about—"
"Dying?" She says the word so matter-of-factly that I look up sharply. "I know what dying feels like, Sebastian. I've been circling this drain for months." Her voice wavers slightly. "But I'd rather spend my remaining time discussing your love life than my impending demise."
"You're not dying," I grind out. "Not on my watch. We're just missing something, and I intend to find it."
Cheryl's laugh is weak but genuine. "Oh, honey. You can't control everything, no matter how hard you try." She reaches out with a trembling hand, her fingers barely brushing my wrist. "Sometimes the kindest thing is knowing when to let go."
"No." I pull up her latest scans on the tablet, angling the screen so she can see. "Your white cell count is fluctuating in a pattern I haven't seen before. There's something we're missing, an autoimmune component, maybe—"
"Sebastian." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, I lift my eyes from the screen. Her gaze is steady, clearer than it's been in days. There's no fear there, just acceptance, and something that looks almost like peace.
"I've had a good run," she says softly. "Longer than I thought I would when all this started. But you need to hear this, if it's my time, it's my time. And you beating yourself up won't change that."
My throat tightens. "It's not your time. Not yet."
"You know what your problem is? You think caring means controlling. But sometimes caring means accepting what you can't change." Her fingers squeeze my wrist weakly. "Like whatever's happening with our Birdie."
"There's nothing happening—"
"Bullshit." The curse sounds foreign in her refined voice, but her eyes spark with familiar fire. "I may be dying, but I'm not blind. The way you two dance around each other, all that delicious tension..." She trails off, that knowing grin back on her lips.
I feel heat creep up my neck again. "Ms. DuBois—"
"Did you at least kiss her properly?" She leans forward conspiratorially. "Was she as sweet as she looks?"
