Luke had seen it all before. The prep room was sterile and humming with quiet focus. Nurses moved like ghosts, gentle and efficient, whispering vitals and confirmations. Machines beeped steadily. Monitors blinked.

But none of that existed for him.

All Luke saw was her.

She lay on the gurney in a hospital gown, looking so small beneath the folds of pale blue. Her hair was tucked under a cap, her lashes fanned delicately against her skin. Her hands rested still on the blanket, one IV already in place. A heart monitor chirped steadily beside her.

His angel. His wife. The one thing in this world he couldn’t afford to lose.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed, his gloved hand wrapping around hers like it was made of glass. “Hey, I’m here.”

Her eyes fluttered open—sluggish, slow. But they found him.

And God, she smiled. Barely. Soft and brave and full of more grace than he deserved.

“You don’t have to be brave for me,” he said, voice cracking as he brought her knuckles to his lips. “You always do that. Smile like it doesn’t hurt. Like you’re not scared. But I know.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

He could feel it in the faint tremble of her fingers. He could see it in the way her breathing hitched when the nurse adjusted the anesthetic flow. She was terrified.

And she was trying to protect him.

“I got the best,” he whispered quickly, urgently, like he had to say it before she disappeared behind the anesthesia. “Peters is leading. Patel’s on backup. I double-checked every supply, every protocol, every scrubbed-in hand. They’ll do this right. I promise you, angel. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her eyes watered—just a little. And that broke him.

“I should be in there,” he admitted, voice dropping low as his forehead touched the edge of the bed. “You know I should be the one doing this. But they won’t let me. Not when it’s you.”

He looked up, met her gaze again, and forced the tightest smile.

“But I’ll be right there,” he said. “Right behind the glass. I’ll watch every second. I’ll be watching you like I always do.”

He kissed her hand again—once, softly. Reverently.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. And I’ve met a lot of people, darling. But no one’s ever loved me the way you do. No one’s ever mattered like this.”

The anesthesiologist leaned in.

“Time to go,” the man said gently.

Luke nodded, though he didn’t move right away. He just stayed kneeling, holding her hand until it went limp, her lashes finally still.

Only then did he rise.

The surgical viewing room was quiet. A gallery of glass and shadows, built for learning and distance. He had stood here before, lectured here, trained others in this very space.

But this was the first time he’d felt like he was watching his own soul on the table.

They were prepping her. Draping her. The monitors beeped. The lights flared bright.

From behind the glass, Luke pressed his palm to the cool surface and whispered, more to himself now:

“Please stay with me, sweetheart.”

He watched them make the first incision. And as her blood welled, his knees nearly buckled.

He had saved lives. He had repaired shattered organs, bypassed dying hearts, pulled the broken back from the edge.

But nothing—not the titles, the accolades, the brilliance—meant anything now.

Because she was the one on the table.

And all he could do was watch.