Page 89 of Priest

He nods once. No argument. No pushback. “Okay.”

The monitor settles back into its steady rhythm. Nothing has been fixed between them. Nothing has been forgiven. But he’s awake, and she’s here for now, which feels bigger than either one of them is ready to admit.

A nurse appears, followed by a doctor, and the room fills with quiet efficiency. Questions are asked. Simple answers come rough from Deacon’s throat. A light shines in his eyes, instructions are given, and through it all, Deacon keeps glancing at Lila like he’s afraid she might vanish if he looks away too long.

When they finally step out, he exhales slowly. “Guess I’m harder to kill than I thought.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she replies. There’s the faintest hint of a smile.

He watches it like it’s something fragile.

She checks the time, pulling herself back into the practical because that seems safer than anything softer. “I should go. You need rest.”

He gives a slight nod. No argument. “Yeah.”

She turns toward the door.

Before she gets a chance to take a step, his voice catches her carefully, like he’s testing the sound of her name again. “Lila,” he says carefully, like he’s testing the sound of her name again. “I don’t… I know I don’t get to expect anything.”

Her eyes meet his. Searching. Measuring.

“I know I left you, I know I left without sayin’ nothin’,” he adds, before she can speak. “I know that.”

The words hang between them.

“I made that choice,” he continues hoarsely. “You don’t owe me a damn thing.”

Her breath catches at that. Just a little.

“I stayed because I was afraid you were dying,” she says softly. “Not because you’re here and everything between us suddenly makes sense.”

“I get that,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Then he stops himself, swallows. “I’m just… glad you’re real, I — thanks.”

That almost breaks her.

She looks away first, and for a second the room holds still around the part of her that almost gave too much.

“I should go,” she says after a moment. “You really need to rest.”

His fingers curl weakly into the sheets. “Will you come back?”

The question comes without demand. Hopeful, maybe, but careful enough to know hope can become pressure if a man handles it wrong.

“I’ll check in,” she replies. “That’s all I can promise right now.”

He nods, accepting it like a man who knows bargaining would only make things worse.

I don’t say anything right away. I watch Deacon instead, the way his attention keeps pulling toward the door even after it’s shut, like some part of him is still calibrated to her being in the room.

“She’s the one — the one you used to talk about,” I say finally.

His eyes flick to me. Sharp, even now. “Yeah.”

“When you spoke about her, it wasn’t like a story,” I continue. “It was more like… somethin’ you carried.”

That earns a slow breath out of him. “Felt like it.”

The monitor hums on beside him. Steady. Alive.