57
The hallway was colder than Amanda expected. It always was in hospitals—sterile and humming with fluorescent light—but this hallway felt colder in a way she couldn't explain. Like the walls had absorbed all the fear and grief that had passed through them, leaving only an echo of waiting hearts.
She sat outside the recovery room, knees bouncing, a lukewarm coffee in her hand she hadn't sipped once.
The nurse had said the surgery went well.
"Textbook," she'd called it. "Clean margins, no complications.
" But Amanda couldn't relax until she saw Ericka herself.
She needed proof. Real, breathing, blinking proof.
It had only been two hours since they wheeled her into the OR, but Amanda felt like she had aged a decade.
When the nurse finally waved her in, Amanda nearly dropped her coffee getting to her feet.
"Room three," the nurse said with a warm smile. "She's still groggy. You can sit with her while she wakes."
Amanda nodded, muttered a thank-you, and walked briskly down the corridor. Her heart pounded in her ears as she reached the room. And when she stepped inside, all that noise—internal and otherwise—just... stopped.
There she was.
Ericka lay on the narrow hospital bed, swathed in thin blankets, her head turned slightly toward the door. Her skin looked pale beneath the fluorescent lights, and her lashes cast long shadows on her cheeks. The oxygen tube in her nose and the IV in her arm made Amanda's chest squeeze tighter.
Seeing her like this—so unguarded, so still—was almost more than Amanda could handle.
She crossed the room quietly, lowering herself into the chair beside the bed. She reached out, gently lacing her fingers with Ericka's.
"You're okay," she whispered, her voice catching. "You made it through."
The machines beeped softly. A nurse passed outside the door. But Amanda couldn't look away from Ericka.
For the first time in weeks, she wasn't thinking about work, or calendar blocks, or cover stories. She was just thinking about this woman. The one who had fought so hard to be untouchable. The one who had let Amanda see the cracks beneath the surface.
And now, here she was—sleeping peacefully, vulnerable and silent.
Amanda leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from Ericka's forehead. She smiled, even though her throat was tight with emotion.
"You scared the hell out of me."
A faint movement.
Ericka's hand twitched beneath Amanda's.
Then her eyelashes fluttered. Her lips parted slightly.
"Amanda?" Her voice was hoarse, barely there.
Amanda leaned closer, her heart stuttering. "I'm here. Right here."
Ericka blinked slowly, trying to focus. "You stayed."
"Of course I stayed."
A soft, slow breath. "Good."
Then, in the quiet, came three words Amanda hadn't expected. Not now. Not here. Not like this.
"I love you."
Amanda froze.
The words weren't loud. They weren't dramatic. They didn't sound like a declaration shouted from a rooftop. They sounded... tired. True. Softened by the edges of sleep.
And they shattered her.
Not because she didn't want to hear them—but because she didn't know what to do with them.
Her grip on Ericka's hand tightened just slightly. "Ericka..."
But Ericka wasn't done.
"I mean it," she murmured, her eyes still halfway closed. "You... you make it easier. Being scared. I don't feel like I'm drowning when you're here."
Amanda stared at her, breath shallow.
"Ericka," she said again, gently. "You're still waking up. You've had a lot of meds, okay? You might not even remember saying this later."
Ericka gave the faintest smile. "Doesn't mean I didn't mean it."
Amanda's heart twisted. She wanted to believe it. She did believe it, somewhere deep down.
But right now, it felt like standing at the edge of something enormous, unable to see where the ground would be if she jumped.
"I think..." Amanda began slowly, carefully, "maybe we should wait and talk about this when you're fully awake. When you're you again."
Ericka's brow furrowed, just a little, and Amanda saw a flash of hurt behind her groggy eyes. But she didn't protest.
She just nodded, sleep already pulling her back down.
"Okay," she murmured. "Later."
Amanda leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Sleep, now. We'll talk when you're ready."
Ericka's hand curled tighter in hers. "Stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
And she didn't.
Amanda sat in that chair for hours, watching her breathe, watching her sleep, watching the faint pink return to her cheeks. She held her hand like it was the only real thing in the world.
But her mind was loud.
She said she loved me.
The words echoed. Over and over.
And Amanda—who had spent her whole adult life keeping people at arm's length, being reliable, being careful—didn't know what to do with them.
She hadn't said it back.
Not because she didn't feel it.
But because the truth of it was too big. Too real. Too soon.
She loved Ericka. She knew that. But loving someone was one thing. Saying it out loud... giving it life... making it vulnerable to the world...
That was another thing entirely.
What if it changed everything?
What if she said it back, and the moment passed, and nothing felt the same?
What if she didn't say it back, and Ericka pulled away for good?
Amanda closed her eyes and breathed in the antiseptic air, trying to slow her thoughts.
Later, she told herself. There will be time later.
For now, she focused on the rise and fall of Ericka's chest.
The softness of her pulse under Amanda's fingertips.
The quiet, undeniable truth that neither of them were the same people they were weeks ago.
And maybe... that was the whole point.
The next morning broke quietly.
Soft light crept in through the slats of the hospital window blinds, painting long shadows across the floor. Amanda had barely slept. Not out of discomfort—she hadn't moved from the chair beside Ericka's bed all night—but because she couldn't stop watching her.
The woman who never paused. Never wavered. Never asked for help.
Now lay in front of her, sleeping deeply. Recovering.
Ericka had only stirred once, around 3 a.m., murmuring something half-coherent about the presentation for next week's rollout. Amanda had hushed her gently, promised to take care of it, and helped her sip water before she slipped back into sleep.
Now it was nearly 7:00 a.m., and the nurse had returned with quiet steps and a gentle smile.
"She's cleared to go home in a couple hours," the nurse said, adjusting the IV. "Vitals are good. Incision looks clean. We'll go over aftercare before discharge."
Amanda nodded, grateful. Her shoulders relaxed just a little.
She turned her attention back to Ericka and reached for her hand. "Ready to get out of here?" she whispered.
Ericka stirred at the sound of her voice, eyelids fluttering open.
"Only if I don't have to climb stairs," she murmured, groggy but sharp.
Amanda chuckled, brushing her thumb along Ericka's knuckles. "Elevator's working just fine."
The discharge process was slow but methodical. Amanda asked all the questions, triple-checked the medication list, and carefully stored the aftercare sheet in her tote bag next to the protein bars and extra phone charger she'd packed for the hospital.
By the time the nurse brought a wheelchair into the room, Ericka was alert but clearly drained. Amanda helped her ease into it, wrapping a lightweight scarf around her neck and tucking her coat gently around her lap.
The hospital doors opened with a soft hiss, and Amanda stepped out into the brisk morning air, pushing Ericka toward the waiting car.
It was the first time in days she saw Ericka visibly exhale.
Not the kind of exhale that came from pain or exhaustion—but from release.
Like being away from the fluorescent lights and machines finally made everything real.
The apartment was warm and quiet when they arrived.
Amanda had made sure of that. She'd come by the day before—fresh sheets, tea ready on the counter, every throw pillow fluffed. The scent of soft eucalyptus lingered in the air from a candle that had long since burned out.
Ericka sat on the edge of the bed, trying to suppress a wince as she moved.
Amanda was already kneeling in front of her, unlacing her shoes, coaxing her into comfort.
"You're going to spoil me," Ericka said, her voice half-hoarse.
Amanda looked up with a soft smirk. "That's the point."
Ericka reached up, fingers brushing lightly through Amanda's hair. It was barely a touch—but Amanda felt it all the way to her ribs.
Once Ericka was changed into soft cotton pajamas and propped up against a mountain of pillows, Amanda brought her water, her meds, and a small, steaming cup of bone broth.
"I know it's not glamorous," Amanda said, handing her the mug, "but it's healing."
Ericka took it with a ghost of a smile. "So are you."
The words made Amanda pause for just a second too long before she brushed them off with a gentle laugh and sat beside her.
They didn't talk much.
They didn't need to.
Amanda simply stayed—flicking through emails on her tablet, answering a call from the team, moving through tasks like a silent forcefield around Ericka.
And Ericka, usually incapable of letting anyone handle her load, just watched.
She let it happen.
Let herself be cared for.
That night, when the light dimmed and the city hummed outside the window, Ericka finally broke the quiet.
"You didn't have to stay," she said softly.
Amanda looked over. "But I wanted to."
"You're not just my assistant anymore."
Amanda closed her tablet. "No. I'm not."
Ericka swallowed. "It's terrifying."
Amanda moved closer, reaching gently for her hand. "That's what makes it real."
There was silence between them then—but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was full. Rich with understanding. And maybe even love—though neither of them said it again just yet.
That night, Amanda stayed in bed beside her, careful not to disturb the incision, her body a quiet anchor. She held Ericka while she slept, and whispered, when she was sure she wouldn't be heard:
"I think I love you too."