The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, but she barely heard them. Her scrubs were stained—some of it blood, some of it coffee—and she’d just finished stitching up a kid who wouldn’t stop calling for his mother. Typical Thursday. Until it wasn’t.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him. Price. Standing in the doorway, cap in hand.

He never came to the hospital unannounced.

Her stomach dropped, pulse hollow in her ears. She swallowed, but her throat burned anyway. “No,” she whispered under her breath, eyes locked on the floor for just a second longer—like if she didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t say it.

But Price took a step forward. His boots echoed too loud in the sterile room.

“Hey, love,” he rasped, voice softer than usual. She finally looked up. His eyes confirmed it before his mouth could.

Her knees nearly gave out. But she stayed standing, somehow.

“You don’t have to say it,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Please—don’t say it.”

Price’s jaw clenched. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for her but wasn’t sure if he should. “He’s not coming home,” he said anyway, voice gravel in his throat.

She let out a breath that broke halfway out of her chest. “I know.”

Her ID badge trembled against her chest as her hands shook. She’d already known the moment her husband missed his check-in. Task Force members didn’t just go dark. Not unless they were—

“I’m sorry,” Price added, voice tight.

Her eyes finally met his. “Did he suffer?” she asked, barely audible.

Price swallowed hard. “No, love. Quick.”

Her hands went to her face, trying to hold something together that was already shattering. Tears welled, but she forced them back for now.

There was still work to do.

“I have another surgery in ten minutes,” she whispered.

Price’s eyes softened, and this time, he did reach for her. She let him.

And for just a second, in the cold trauma wing, she let herself fall into his arms—not as a soldier’s wife, not as a captain or a medic—but as someone who had just lost the love of her life.