I don’t remember deciding to do it.

I don’t remember deciding to do it.

One moment I was checking the IV line, the next my hand was resting lightly against the side of his face. His skin was warm. The stubble scraped softly against my palm. For half a year I had spoken into the quiet of this room, pouring out every fear and small hope I never told anyone else. He had become the only person who never interrupted, never judged, never left.

So I leaned down and kissed him.

It was brief. Gentle. More gratitude than desire. A quiet thank-you to the man who had, without ever speaking, kept me company through the loneliest hours of my life.

I pulled back, already scolding myself, already rehearsing the professional distance I should never have broken—

—and Henry Duval opened his eyes.

They were dark, clear, and completely aware.

Before I could step away, his hand came up and caught my wrist. Not weakly. Not confused. Firmly. Then his other arm moved, and suddenly I was being pulled forward into an embrace that felt deliberate, almost desperate, as if he had been waiting for the exact moment I would come close enough.

My forehead rested against his shoulder. I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the thin hospital gown.

“Claire,” he said, his voice rough from disuse but unmistakable.

I froze.

He knew my name.