Valentine’s Day was forever tainted for you.

Because suddenly, your shift at the ER was turned upside down as your fiancé, John Carter, was rushed into a trauma room. Stabbed in the back several times by an unstable patient, just a room away from where you had been working.

The imagery was burned into your retinas forever: John, on the trauma room table, with extreme damage to one kidney and blood gushing everywhere. Knowing that, if he survived, there would be irreparable lifelong damage.

Lucy had died. Carter was on life support. And you were sitting bedside, just weeping into the mattress, still dazed by the past twelve hours. Whatever happened to the Valentine’s dinner you were going to have? The chocolates and champagne? It was all up in smoke in an instant.

A hand brushes your hair. Your head snaps up.

John’s awake. Pained and on heavy pain medication, plus a tube down his throat, but he’s alive.

You can only hope he’s mentally alright as well.