Waiting rooms are hell.

No, seriously. I’ve been in my fair share—hockey injuries, stitches, that one time Ralph broke his wrist trying to impress some girl by jumping off a bar table—but nothing like this. Nothing where I had to just sit here, staring at the ugly beige walls, breathing recycled air, waiting to find out if the love of my life is going to make it.

I keep my elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my knuckles are white. Feels like if I loosen my grip even a little, I might come apart.

The chair across from me has an abandoned magazine on it. TIME. The cover’s crinkled, some article about politics or the economy—things that usually piss me off enough to be distracting. Right now, I can’t even focus on the title. My eyes keep drifting back to the clock above the reception desk.

One hour.

Two.

Three.

Every time a nurse walks past, my chest goes tight, ready for the worst. But none of them stop. None of them come to tell me what’s happening.

Ralph showed up an hour ago, dropped a coffee into my hands, and didn’t say a word. Just sat next to me, silent. He’s still here now, legs stretched out, head tipped back against the wall.

“You should go home,” he says eventually.

I shake my head. “No.”

“She’s gonna be okay, man.”

I swallow, throat raw. “You don’t know that.”

Silence. I can feel him watching me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m about to crack. But he doesn’t push. He just sighs and leans forward, rubbing his hands over his face.

Time stretches. People come and go. I don’t move.

And then, finally—finally—a doctor walks toward me. I stand too fast, the blood rush making my vision blur.

“Luca De Santis?”

“Yes,” I say immediately, voice sharp. “Yes. That’s me.”

She gives me a tired smile. “The surgery was a success.”

I don’t register anything else. Not right away. My brain snags on success, turning it over and over.