Diane stiffens immediately. “Groggier how?”
Melissa turns toward her, voice gentle but steady. “Sleepier. Slower. But more comfortable. And we’ll monitor him closely.”
Frank looks between the three of us. “Am I gonna miss anything good?”
I meet his gaze. “You’ll still be you but with less pain.”
He considers that for a moment, then sighs. “All right. But if I start saying weird things, I want it on record that I warned you.”
Melissa smiles. “Duly noted.”
Diane reaches for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I want him comfortable,” she says quietly. “That’s all I want.”
Melissa meets her eyes. “We want that too.”
There’s a beat of silence after that. Not awkward. Heavy.
I clear my throat. “All right. We’ll make the adjustment and check back in a few hours.”
Melissa steps closer to administer the medication. She finishes up, then straightens, her gaze flicking to mine. “I’ll stay with him for a bit. Make sure he tolerates the change.”
“Good,” I say. Then, after a half-second hesitation, “Thank you.”
She looks surprised by that. Only for a moment.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Fisher.”
As I turn to leave the room, I glance back once more. Frank’s eyes are already drooping. Diane is smoothing his hair with careful fingers. Melissa stands nearby, steady, present as she gathers her things to leave.
It hits me then—how naturally we slipped into that decision together. No tension. No distance. Only trust.
And that realization sits heavier in my chest than it should.
The door clicks shut behind us. I hear Frank’s muffled voice and the steady beep of the monitors on the other side. Melissa walks beside me for a few steps, then slows.
“So,” she says carefully.
I feel it immediately. The shift. The way that single word isn’t about the patient anymore.
I keep my eyes forward. “So.”
She stops walking. I don’t at first, but I feel it. The absence at my side, the pause that demands attention.
I turn back.
She’s standing there with her arms folded loosely across her chest, not defensive exactly… bracing. Her brows knit together, confusion flickering across her face before she schools it away.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks.
The question lands heavier than it should. I run a hand along the back of my neck. The fluorescent lights feel harsher all of a sudden. Too bright. Too revealing.
“This isn’t—” I start, then stop.
She waits. That’s the worst part. She doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t fill the silence. She watches, like she’s learned how to read rooms and people who don’t say what they mean.
“That in there,” she says softly, nodding toward the room, “that was good. We worked well together.”
“Yes,” I agree.
