Page 34 of Seven Minutes
I traced the curve of his wrist, fingers brushing against the coolness of his skin. If I could, I’d give him all the warmth in my body, press it into him until he felt nothing but heat. Eli always hated being cold, and the thought tore through me as a broken sob clawed its way from my chest.
Carefully, I slid the bracelet onto his wrist, the rough twine pressing softly against him. “Do you remember the vineyard?” I whispered, voice shaking. “Our first anniversary, that little cottage… three days of sun and wine and laughter that stretched forever.” My fingers lingered over the bracelet, tracing the knotted vine, remembering the way his skin had glowed in the moonlight. “You were—God, Eli—you were perfect. Just… breathtaking. And we swore we’d return every year. I’ll take you back. I swear it.”
I leaned closer, pressing my forehead to the back of his hand, letting my tears fall onto his skin. “Every chance we get,we’ll make love as we did there. Like we had all the time in the world. I won’t waste another moment, I promise. You’re my life, Eli. My everything. I won’t leave you. Not now, not ever.”
The hum of machines filled the space around us, but I felt only him, the memory of his body pressed against mine, the sound of his laughter under the stars. “You hear me, Eli? You’re mine. I’ll fight for you. For us. I’ll never stop.”
I let my lips brush the curve of his wrist, the smallest kiss I could give him through the quiet, and prayed the weight of it carried across the distance between consciousness and dreams. My chest hurt, and my body was sore and drained, but my heart—my heart was finally certain. He would come back. We would come back.
The door opened quietly, and the team filed in, clipboards in hand, eyes flicking from the monitors to me.
“Morning, Dr. Hawke,” one said in a professional, clipped voice, but soft enough to acknowledge the tension thickening the air. “How’s he doing?”
I swallowed, forcing the doctor’s voice to override the husband’s. “Vitals stable. Still comatose. No acute changes overnight.”
My hand hovered over his wrist, brushing the bracelet I’d tucked there like a secret tether to a happier time, a healthier version of us.
One resident leaned forward, fingers tracing the waveforms on the monitor. “We’re considering another MRI to assess whether the swelling has gone down. Any concerns?”
I nodded, every muscle drawn tight. “It’s reasonable. Givesus a clearer picture before adjusting medications or interventions.”
They started listing labs, checking electrolytes, discussing sedation, ventilation, the risk of secondary injury. I answered each question, mechanically precise, my tone calm, clinical—but my eyes never left Eli.
His lashes lay against his cheeks like delicate brushes, the faint rise and fall of his chest a fragile metronome keeping time with my pulse.
“Dr. Hawke,” another attending said, tapping a chart. “We can adjust sedation if he’s showing signs of agitation. Could improve his responsiveness post-scan.”
I hesitated, swallowing a lump that tasted like fear. “No. Let’s keep him sedated for now. He’s stable, and agitation could worsen intracranial pressure.” My hand squeezed his lightly, an anchor for myself as much as for him.
For a heartbeat, I wanted to cross that line.
My gaze drifted to the IV port, the sedation line, the infusion rates I could recite from memory.Just a little less. Let him hear me.
The urge burned through me—an instinct stronger than reason—but training won out.You could lose him completely if you act on impulse.
I caught a look from the resident—half sympathy, half curiosity—and it stung like salt in an open wound.
They didn’t see Eli. They saw a case. A patient. A body hooked to machines.
A few more questions, a few more nods. The air filled with the quiet hum of discussion, the timing of scans, risk thresholds,and outcome probabilities. I listened, responded, nodded where appropriate, while my mind drifted elsewhere—mapping out the OR schedule, recalling who was on shift, who I trusted to touch him if it came to that.
Finally, the attending leaned toward me, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “You’re doing everything right, Dr. Hawke. We’ll update you after the scan.”
I forced a nod, a hollow smile. “Thank you.”
When they left, the room expanded again, vast and empty. The professional mask slipped, and the husband was all that was left.
My chest heaved. I slid down into the chair beside the bed and reached for him.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, my voice hitching on the words. “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”
My palm rested over his, fingers curling around his wrist. He didn’t move, but I imagined he could hear me. Maybe he did.
And even as my mind calculated next steps, sedation doses, imaging sequences, nuero checks, I felt it all—the fear, the rage, the grief, the desperate hope—coiling and twisting together. I was his doctor. I was his husband. And I was powerless to do anything but stay here beside him, trying to hold the line between medicine and heartache, between what Ishoulddo and what I would give everything to do.
Chapter 17
What We Keep Safe
