I shift in the chair. Cross and uncross my legs. Run my hand down my jeans and then across the armrest, like movement might keep the fear from settling.

Panic is whispering to me.

What if something went wrong?

What if they opened him up, and it was worse than they thought?

What if he doesn’t wake up?

I close my eyes, press my fingers to the center of my chest. There’s no reason to spiral. No logical reason to fall apart. But love doesn’t care about logic. And fear doesn’t need facts to make itself at home.

Time stretches, and I pace the hallway, my sneakers whispering over polished tile. I try sitting again, but the seat’s too stiff, the silence too loud. I grab a coffee from the vending machine in the corner just to have something to do with my hands. It tastes like burnt water, but I drink it anyway.

Because anything is better than feeling this helpless.

And then—finally⁠—

“Mrs. Sebring?”

I turn on instinct. Hearing myself called that… God, it does something to me. Lodges something soft and warm right beneath my ribs.

The nurse smiles and gestures for me to follow her. “This way.”

She leads me down a short corridor and into a small consultation room. Neutral walls. Soft lighting. A table with tissues in the center, just in case.

The door opens again a minute later, and in walks the doctor––still in scrubs, surgical cap on his head. He offers me a warm smile as he sinks into the chair across from mine.

“Alex is out of surgery. He’s in recovery now.”

I’m able to breathe again.

“He did great. The damage was a little more extensive than what we saw on the scans, which is why it took longer than expected. But I was able to repair the ligaments and reinforce the joint.”

“That’s great.”

“He’ll have some pain, of course. The next few weeks won’t be easy—but with the right rehab protocol, he should make a full recovery.”

I close my eyes for a second, press my palms together like a silent prayer answered. Relief floods me, leaving warmth in its wake. “Thank you so much.”

He stands to leave, reaching out to shake my hand. “He’s tough. You’ll see. He’ll be back on the rugby field next season, better than ever.”

The words land like a stone in my stomach.

I blink. But by the time I look up, the doctor’s already gone, door closing behind him.

And I’m left sitting there. Stunned. Silent.

Back on the rugby field?

I don’t go back to the waiting room. Instead, I wander the hallway on autopilot until I find an alcove—just a narrow bench beneath a window that faces a blank brick wall. I sit––slowly––like my body weighs twice as much now.

He didn’t tell me.