The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and nervousness.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap, my cane resting against the chair. The white noise of rustling papers and murmured names over the intercom barely reached me. What did register, though, was Adrian’s thumb brushing slow circles against the back of my hand.
He was beside me, jeans and a button-down, no white coat today. Just Adrian.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I gave him a half-smile. “I think I’m more nervous now than before the surgery.”
“You’ve come a long way in four weeks.”
I glanced toward the reception desk. “It doesn’t feel like it. I still get disoriented in low light. Bright colors are fuzzy.”
“But you’re seeing more than you were,” he reminded gently. “Healing isn’t linear.”
I let out a breath. “I know. I jus
