“Magnolia, when the doctor comes out and gives a report, please call us right away. Doesn’t matter what time it is, all right?”

I nod. “I will. Promise.”

Her eyes flick back to Alex, and her smile wobbles. “And remember, if he gives you any trouble, you have my permission to smack him.”

I press a hand to my chest. “Noted.”

Alexander clears his throat, standing a little taller behind her. “You’ll do fine, son. Just wake up with both legs and don’t give the nurses a hard time. They’re the ones in charge of handing out pain meds.”

Alex huffs a soft laugh. “No promises.”

His mother blows him a kiss. “I love you, Aleki.”

“Love you too, Tinā.”

Alexander nods, firm but warm. “Love you, son.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Malie’s gaze returns to mine one more time. “We love you too, Magnolia.”

For a moment, I freeze. The words catch me off guard—not because they’re untrue, but because I’m not used to hearing them. Not from anyone’s parents. Not even my own. The warmth spreads anyway. Quiet and steady. Like belonging.

“I love you both,” I say. And I mean it.

The call ends as the nurse pushes through the door, a smile in place. “It’s that time, Mr. Sebring.”

She unlocks the bed and adjusts the rails, then glances at me with a wink. “Next time you see this guy, he’ll be a little less busted up.”

Alex’s hand finds mine again, his palm sweaty. I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead, lips lingering just a second longer than they should.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His eyes meet mine. “I love you, favorite.”

My heart clenches. “I love you too, big guy.”

He nods, silent now, but something flickers in his eyes—something that says everything he isn’t ready to put into words.

And then they wheel him away—his fingers slipping from mine like a tether loosening.

The door shuts behind him, and in a snap, it’s quiet.

The waiting room smells of disinfectant and tension. I pick a chair by the window—not for the view, but away from others. Maybe I can get some work done.

Design software loads, blank templates blinking at me. But the only thing I can think about is the man who is lying unconscious on an operating table somewhere in this building.

I check the time. He’s only been gone fifty-two minutes. Seems like hours.

I tuck my phone facedown beside me and try to focus again, but the lines on the screen blur. My stomach knots with every passing second. I chew on my thumbnail, something I haven’t done in years.

Then my email notification dings.

Tyson McRae—bold, unread—sitting there like it belongs in my life.