The nurse handed me the consent forms, and my hands shook as I signed them without reading every line. My mother sobbed beside me, her shoulders trembling, while Ethan stood rigid a few feet away, his jaw tight and eyes fixed on the double doors leading to surgery.
Time crawled. The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and fear. My mother clutched my arm, whispering prayers under her breath. Ethan paced once, then twice, before dropping into the chair next to mine. His hand found mine, warm and steady, fingers lacing through mine without asking.
Hours later, a surgeon emerged. He explained the procedure had gone well—my brother was stable, though still critical. Relief flooded through me so fast my knees buckled. Ethan caught me, pulling me against his chest. I felt the hard lines of his b
