Donovan

The operating room light was cold, surgically perfect. Donovan Wolfe held the scalpel with the precision of a modern god, his breathing steady, his pulse unwavering.

The patient's heart was beating fast under the monitor, but it was Donovan's that was throbbing with an unfamiliar restlessness. Every incision, every suture, every perfect maneuver he performed was accompanied by a single invasive thought:

Are you really going to leave?

"Dr. Wolfe, irrigating," one of the assistants announced.

He barely nodded. His face, covered by the surgical mask, hid the tense line of his jaw. He shouldn't think about it. Not during minimally invasive heart surgery. But the thought lingered: Would she really leave?

Donovan closed the last suture. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from physical exertion, but from the titanic emotional effort of keeping his mask on.

"Excellent work, Dr. Wolfe," said one of the residents in admiration.

Excellent? Donovan didn't feel excellence. He just felt panic. A panic as sharp and clinical as a scalpel on skin.

She took a deep breath as the assistants began cleaning the surgical field. The surgery had been perfect, flawless, as always. But it wasn't enough. Nothing would be enough if Eleonor was no longer there.

When he finally finished removing his gloves and leaving the operating room, Donovan knew she would be waiting for him. She always was. With that uniform she managed to make look haute couture. With that direct, implacable gaze, like a mirror that wouldn't let him hide.

There she was. Leaning against the wall, tablet in hand, reviewing protocols. When she saw him leave, Eleonor straightened her back and her face lit up slightly.

"Doctor Wolfe," he began, smiling. "The surgery was flawless, as usual—" "Are you going to leave? Tell me," he interrupted her, his voice low and harsh. "Are you going to accept that offer?"