My husband lied and said he spent the night at the hospital—but the next morning I saw intimate photos of him with another woman on Instagram.

8:17 a.m.

Ciaran hadn't come home.

All night.

I reached for my phone to call him, but the screen woke to notifications.

Instagram.

Ciaran's colleague, Betty, posted again. Late. Very late.

The first story: Her apartment. Her sofa. And my husband—tie gone, shirt open, wine glass in hand, a relaxed, charming smile.

Her arm was draped over his shoulder, her body slightly turned towards him. The caption read: "Celebrating with my loved ones."

Another post. Her cheek against his.

Third photo: His hand and hers, holding matching wine glasses, fingers almost intertwined.

My hands trembled. Watching the posts loop.

He hadn't come home because he'd gone to Betty's.

They'd kept drinking. Laughing. Alone.

Then he called.

"Hey, baby. I’m asleep in the hospital," he said casually. "Don't want to wake you."

I gripped my phone tightly.

He hadn't crashed at the hospital.

I saw the photo. But he didn’t know.

I didn't tell him I knew where he was sleeping.

Because it didn’t matter anymore.

——

The overhead lights in Operating Room 3 burned cold and unforgiving, casting sharp shadows across the sterile field. The rhythmic beep of monitors and the steady hiss of the ventilator filled the air like a mechanical heartbeat.

Dr. Ciaran Wilson stood at the center of it all, the undisputed maestro. Gowned in crisp blue scrubs, surgical cap pulled low over his dark, tousled hair, he was the picture of focused intensity and devastating beauty.

Above the mask, his striking green eyes held a calm, almost hypnotic command, framed by the faint shadow of stubble that darkened his jaw after yet another marathon shift.

Even exhausted, he was handsome in a way that turned heads: strong features softened by that effortless Irish charm, broad shoulders steady as he guided the delicate bypass graft with gloved hands that moved like an artist's.

"Ten blade," he murmured, voice low and smooth, that subtle lilt cutting through the tension.

Betty passed it instantly, her gaze lingering. "Steady as ever, Ciaran."

He offered the briefest flash of a smile, those green eyes crinkling with warmth that made the circulating nurse glance away quickly, before returning to the open chest. "Let's get this artery singing again."

From the corner table, outside the sterile zone, came a faint but insistent vibration. Once. Twice. Then a third, fourth, fifth, buzzing against the metal tray like an angry insect.

The scrub tech rolled her eyes toward the sound. "His phone again. Must be the wife."

Betty leaned in slightly, voice a conspiratorial murmur over the suction. "Poor thing. Always calling, always checking. Doesn't she get it? He's in the middle of saving a life."

A couple of quiet snorts from the team, quickly stifled. "Meddling type," the anesthesiologist muttered under his breath. "Lucky man like him deserves someone who understands the job."

Ciaran didn't react outwardly, his handsome face remained impassive above the mask, stubble catching the harsh light as he tied off a suture with perfect precision. But for a fraction of a second, his green eyes flicked toward the vibrating phone on the tray: Leah's name glowing on the screen, message after unread message stacking up.

Dinner's ready. Miss you.

Everything okay?

I'm waiting, honey.

He looked away, back to the fragile heart beating under his hands.

This one, at least, he could still fix.

Outside the double doors, the night stretched on, the anniversary slipping quietly into yesterday while Madame waited alone.

*******

The house had fallen into a hush broken only by the occasional creak of old beams settling in the night air. The dining room, once aglow with hope, now felt like a stage after the audience had gone.

Leah sat slumped at the table, her head resting on folded arms amid the ruins of her careful preparations. The cake, three tender layers of vanilla sponge filled with raspberry cream, frosted in flawless white, stood untouched in the center, its chocolate script Happy 5th Anniversary already beginning to blur in the humidity. Beside it, Ciaran's favorite fettuccine carbonara had gone cold hours ago, the sauce congealing around perfectly twirled strands. A vase of white lilies, fragrant, extravagant, chosen because he'd once said they reminded him of her, cast long shadows in the low light.

She had stopped calling around midnight. The phone lay dark and silent now, screen cracked from the countless times she'd checked it.

Exhaustion had finally claimed her. Leah slept fitfully, wavy platinum-blonde hair tumbling loose from its pins, strands clinging to damp cheeks. Her breathing was soft, uneven... dreams fractured by waiting.

Then a sharp, involuntary sob wrenched her awake.

She lifted her head slowly, rubbing at her brown eyes with trembling fingers. They came away wet. The clock on the wall read 1:12 a.m., their anniversary already surrendered to a new day.

"Ciaran..." His name broke from her throat like a plea. "You promised."

For a long moment she simply stared at the table, at the effort, the love, the loneliness arranged so perfectly before her. Then something inside her snapped.

She rose unsteadily, grasping the cake plate with both hands. Her fingers sank into the soft icing as she carried it to the kitchen, dropping it into the bin with a dull, final thud that echoed in the empty house.

The lilies were next. She seized the vase, water sloshing over the rim, and one by one ripped the blooms from their stems, petals tearing, scattering across the floor like fallen confetti from a celebration that never happened.

The pasta followed: plate upended into the sink, porcelain clattering against steel, sauce splattering the white tiles in angry streaks.

Only then did she run. Bare feet silent on the hardwood, as if the dining room itself were chasing her.

In their bedroom, moonlight spilled through the curtains, silvering the edges of everything. On the nightstand sat their wedding photo: Ciaran's green eyes alight with joy, his arms wrapped around her as she laughed into his shoulder. They looked invincible.

Leah stood before it, chest heaving. Slowly, deliberately, she reached behind her neck and unclasped the diamond earrings he'd given her the night he proposed, tears in his eyes then, too, but for entirely different reasons. She set them down beside the frame with a soft click, as though returning a gift she no longer had the right to wear.

Then she crawled into the vast bed alone, pulling his pillow to her chest. The scent of him still lingered there... faint, fading. The sobs came harder now, raw and hiccuping, shaking her whole body.

"I can't believe you're the same man," she whispered into the darkness, voice cracking with every word. "The one who used to wait outside my college in the rain... who skipped lectures, risked your residency placement, just to drive me home. Just to hold my hand a little longer."

She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, as if she could still find him there.

"You swore you'd always choose me."

*******

Ciaran peeled off the blood-flecked gloves with a practiced snap, then the gown, folding it neatly into the bin. The surgical cap came last, freeing his dark, tousled hair. He ran a hand through it, the faint shadow of stubble catching the fluorescent light as he moved to the deep stainless-steel sink.

Hot water rushed over his hands, soap foaming white as he scrubbed methodically, fingers, nails, wrists, until his skin felt raw. In the mirror above, his green eyes looked back, tired but still sharp, still unfairly handsome even after fourteen hours on his feet.

Laughter echoed from the doorway. Three younger nurses lingered, shedding their own caps and masks, eyes bright with post-case adrenaline.

"Another masterpiece, Dr. Wilson," one teased, leaning against the frame. "How do you make a triple bypass look easy?"

He glanced up, that charming half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Practice and a very good team." His voice carried that warm lilt, effortless.

The second nurse giggled. "And those hands. No wonder the patients wake up smiling."

He laughed softly, low, genuine, shaking water from his fingers. "You lot are terrible for my ego."

They lingered a little longer, trading light banter, until footsteps approached from behind. An older nurse, mid-fifties, kind eyes, no nonsense, placed his phone gently on the counter beside the paper towels.

"Better not forget this, Dr. Wilson," she said with a knowing smile before turning away.

The younger nurses dispersed with final waves, their chatter fading down the corridor.

Finally alone, Ciaran dried his hands slowly, then reached for the phone.

The screen lit up under his touch.

Seventeen missed calls.

Twelve unread messages.

All from Leah.

Are you still in surgery?

Dinner's ready whenever you are.

Just let me know when you'll be home

Ciaran... please.

The last one, sent at 11:47 p.m., Happy anniversary, my love.

His heart twisted, sharp, sudden. He clenched his jaw, thumb hovering over her name, guilt rising like bile.

Then a voice behind him, too close.

"There you are."

Betty appeared in the doorway... no gown, no gloves, scrubs hugging her figure, hair loose and perfect as always. She stepped in, sliding an arm through his without asking, pressing against his side.

"Drive me home?" she asked, voice soft, eyes wide with that practiced vulnerability. "It's late, and you know how creepy the parking garage is at this hour."

He stiffened. "Betty, I-"

"Come on," she pressed, fingers tightening on his arm. "We're best friends, aren't we? You always take care of me after a big case."

Her smile was sweet, insistent. She knew exactly which strings to pull.

Ciaran exhaled, glancing once more at Leah's name on the screen. The call button glowed beneath his thumb.

He let the phone go dark.

"Yeah," he said quietly, voice flat. "All right. Let's go."

Betty's smile widened in triumph as she steered him toward the exit, her body leaning into his.

*******

He'd meant to drop her off and leave. Instead, he'd followed her inside when she insisted, "Just one drink. Come on, Ciaran... we earned it. Another perfect save tonight. You were brilliant." , telling himself it was harmless. Best friends. Decompression after a long case. One drink turned into two, then three, her laughter growing louder, her touches lingering longer, hand on his arm, knee brushing his under the small kitchen table.

She talked endlessly about the surgery, replaying every moment as if he hadn't lived it. "You should've seen the way everyone looked at you," she said, eyes glassy, leaning in. "Like you were a god."

Ciaran smiled politely, nodded, but his gaze kept drifting to the clock on her wall.

2:17 a.m.

2:43 a.m.

3:12 a.m.

Each minute felt heavier than the last. Leah's messages burned in his pocket, unread but not unfelt. He imagined her at home, waiting, then not waiting, then giving up entirely.

At 3:58, Betty finally ran out of words. Her head dropped to the couch cushion beside him, eyes fluttering shut mid-sentence. Within moments, her breathing deepened into sleep, soft and trusting, one hand still loosely curled near his sleeve.

Ciaran sat frozen for a long minute, staring at her. Then, gently, he eased himself up. He pulled the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over her, tucking it around her shoulders with the same careful precision he used closing incisions.

She didn't stir.

He stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets, green eyes shadowed with something unnameable... guilt, exhaustion, regret. Then he turned, picked up his keys from the counter, and walked out quietly, closing the door with a soft click.

The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead as he leaned against the wall outside her apartment, head tipped back, jaw tight.

4:26 a.m.

He pulled out his phone.

The screen lit his tired, handsome face... stubble darker now, eyes bloodshot but still piercing.

Leah's name stared back at him, along with the time stamp of her final message:

11:47 p.m.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

He pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.

Straight to voicemail.

He closed his eyes, thumb hovering, then lowered the phone.

Too late.

He walked alone to the elevator, shoulders slightly bowed, the weight of the night finally settling on him like a wound he couldn't suture shut.

*******

The sky outside was already bleeding pale gray with the first hint of dawn when Ciaran finally turned the key in the lock. The house was dark, silent, the air heavy with the faint scent of lilies and something sweeter... vanilla, maybe, from whatever Leah had baked.

He moved quietly through the rooms, guilt pressing harder with every step. The dining room stopped him cold.

Scattered petals on the floor. An empty vase tipped on its side. The bin lid ajar, a smear of white icing visible inside. The sink still held the remnants of dinner, his favorite pasta, scraped and abandoned.

His throat tightened.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each creak of the old wood sounding like an accusation. The bedroom door was ajar, moonlight spilling across the bed in a silver pool.

There she was.

Leah lay curled on her side, facing his empty half of the bed, one palm tucked beneath her cheek exactly the way she always slept... like a child waiting for a story. Her lips were softly pursed, wavy platinum-blonde hair fanned messily across the pillow, a few strands stuck to her damp cheek. Even in sleep, even after everything, she looked impossibly gentle, impossibly beautiful. Innocent in a way that made his chest ache.

Ciaran lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the mattress, the frame dipping under his weight. He brushed the hair from her face with trembling fingers, then leaned down and pressed a feather-light ki-ss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry, babe," he whispered, voice rough with exhaustion and regret. He took her hand, small, warm, trusting even now, and laced their fingers. "I'm so sorry I missed our anniversary. You were really looking forward to it, and I..."

He exhaled shakily, the words catching. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."

He brought her hand to his lips, ki-ssing her knuckles softly, lingering there.

"My beautiful, innocent love," he murmured against her skin. "I love you. I love you so much."

For a long moment he just watched her sleep, green eyes shadowed, stubble dark against pale skin. Then he rose quietly and padded to the en-suite bathroom.

The shower was quick... hot water sluicing away the hospital smells, the faint trace of Betty's perfume, the night itself. When he returned, he wore only loose gray sweatpants, hair damp and tousled, droplets still clinging to his shoulders.

He slipped into bed behind her, sliding one arm beneath her pillow, the other wrapping around her waist. Gently, carefully, he drew Leah back against his chest until she fit perfectly into the curve of his body. She stirred faintly, a small sigh escaping her lips, but didn't wake.

Ciaran buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, vanilla and lilies and home.

"I love you, sleep, my angel," he whispered into the soft waves, pressing a lingering ki-ss to the top of her head.

He held her close, eyes open in the dim light, guilt and love warring behind them as the first birds began to call outside.

For now, she was still here.

For now, that had to be enough.

*******

YESTERDAY

The morning light filtered softly through the lace curtains, turning the bedroom a warm gold. It was just past eight when Leah stirred first, her brown eyes fluttering open to the sight of Ciaran still asleep beside her, dark hair tousled against the pillow, stubble shadowing his jaw, one arm flung protectively across her waist even in sleep.

She smiled, a slow, radiant thing, and leaned over to press a gentle ki-ss to his forehead.

"Ciaran," she whispered, voice bubbling with excitement. "Wake up, love."

He groaned softly, green eyes cracking open, bleary but instantly softening when they landed on her. "Mm... what time is it?"

"Time to celebrate," she said, propping herself on an elbow, wavy platinum-blonde hair falling over her shoulder. "It's our fifth anniversary today. Five whole years since you made me the happiest woman in the world."

His face lit up, sleep fading as the realization hit. A slow, charming grin spread across his handsome features. He reached for her, pulling her down into his arms with a low laugh. "Five years with my beautiful girl. How did I get so lucky?"

They lay tangled together for a long minute, laughing quietly, trading soft ki-sses and murmured memories... how he'd proposed under fairy lights, how nervous he'd been, how she'd cried happy tears into his shirt.

"We're doing it properly today," he said firmly, tracing lazy circles on her back. "No work. No interruptions. Just us."

Leah's eyes sparkled. "What did you have in mind?"

He thought for a moment, then smiled. "Let's go out this afternoon, walk in the park, maybe that little cafe you love with the window seats. Then come home. You bake that vanilla-raspberry cake you make so well, the one that ruins me for all other desserts... and cook dinner. Your carbonara. I'll bring wine and flowers."

She laughed, delighted. "You want me to bake my own anniversary cake?"

"Only because you do it better than anyone," he teased, nuzzling her neck. "And I want to see you in that blue dress, flour on your cheek, looking like every dream I've ever had."

"Deal," she whispered, sealing it with a slow, lingering ki-ss that deepened until they were both breathless.

His hands framed her face. "I love you, Leah Wilson. More today than yesterday."

"I love you too," she said, eyes shining. "Always."

They stayed like that a little longer, planning details in hushed, happy voices... the park route, the wine he'd pick up, how they'd dance in the kitchen after dinner like they did when they were dating.

Then his phone rang.

The shrill tone cut through the warmth like a scalpel. Ciaran froze mid-laugh, glancing at the screen on the nightstand.

Hospital.

He answered, voice shifting instantly to professional calm. "Wilson."

Leah watched his face change, the easy joy tightening into focus as he listened. A pause. A quiet, "How unstable?" Another pause. Then: "I'll be there in thirty."

He ended the call and looked at her, regret already flooding his green eyes.

"Emergency bypass," he said softly. "Patient's crashing. They need me now."

The light in Leah's face dimmed, excitement folding in on itself like a flower closing at dusk. She tried to smile. "It's okay. Go save a life. We'll celebrate when you're back."

"I'll be quick," he promised, cupping her cheek. "I'll be home in time for dinner. Cake, wine, dancing, the whole plan. I swear."

He ki-ssed her again... urgent this time, as if trying to pour all the day's promised joy into that one moment.

Then he was up, moving toward the bathroom. The shower hissed on moments later.

Leah sat in the middle of the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, listening to the water run.

By the time he emerged, toweling his hair, already half-dressed, she'd mustered her smile again.

"Go," she said gently. "I'll be here. Waiting."

He paused at the door, handsome even in haste, green eyes full of apology. "I love you."

"I know," she whispered.

And then he was gone.

The house settled into silence around her, the morning light suddenly feeling a little colder.

*******

Leah stirred slowly, the morning light already bright through the curtains. Her hand reached instinctively across the bed, empty, but the sheets on Ciaran's side were crumpled, still faintly warm. The pillow carried his scent.

He'd come home.

Her heart sank.

da-mmit. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. I fell asleep too early. I should've waited up. I'm so stupid.

She thought of the ruined dining room, petals still scattered, the bin lid askew, and guilt twisted in her stomach. He would have seen all of it.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Ciaran's name lit the screen.

She answered quickly, voice soft and a little hoarse from crying. "he-llo?"

"Morning, Sunshine," he said, his voice warm but laced with unmistakable regret. "Are you up?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Just woke up."

A pause. She heard him exhale, the background hum of the hospital corridor faint behind him.

"Leah... I'm so sorry." His words came out low, heavy. "Yesterday was our fifth anniversary. You were really looking forward to it, you planned everything, made it perfect, and I missed it. I let you down again. I saw the table... the cake, the lilies, the pasta. I saw what you did for us, and I wasn't here."

Her throat tightened. She pulled her knees to her chest, silent.

"I hate that I did this to you," he continued, voice cracking just slightly. "I promised you a day together, and I broke it. I'm sorry, babe. Truly. You deserve so much better than late nights and empty promises."

She swallowed. "It's okay-"

"It's not," he cut in gently but firmly. "But I'm going to make it right. I've already cleared my schedule with the chief. Next month, no emergencies, no excuses. We're going anywhere you want. A proper vacation. Paris, the Amalfi Coast, that little cottage in Ireland you've always talked about. Wherever you say. Just us. And we'll celebrate our anniversary there the way we should have yesterday... dinner, dancing, cake you don't have to bake alone. I'll make it perfect this time."

A small, hopeful flutter stirred in her chest despite everything.

"And before you say no," he added quickly, "it's already booked in my head. You just pick the place."

She let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "Okay."

"Good." Relief flooded his voice. "Now, check your nightstand drawer. The one on your side."

Curious, she reached over and pulled it open.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay an elegant necklace... a delicate white-gold chain with a single teardrop sapphire pendant, surrounded by tiny diamonds that caught the morning light like captured stars.

Leah gasped softly, lifting it with trembling fingers. "Ciaran... it's beautiful."

"I saw it last week and knew it belonged on you," he said quietly. "Happy anniversary, my love. Five years, and I'm still the luckiest man alive because you said yes."

She clasped it around her neck, the cool stone resting just above her heart. "Thank you," she whispered. "I love it."

"I love you," he said. "I'll be home early today, no later than six. Wait for me, okay? We'll order in, open wine, and start making up for lost time."

She smiled despite the ache still lingering. "I'll be here."

"See you soon, Sunshine."

The call ended.

Leah sat in the quiet bedroom a moment longer, fingers tracing the sapphire, hope flickering cautiously back to life.

She would wait.

*******

The boutique buzzed softly with the afternoon crowd, customers drifting between racks of silk dresses and tailored coats, the air scented with fresh coffee from the corner station. Leah stood near the fitting rooms, arms full of fabric swatches, her wavy platinum-blonde hair tied back in a loose knot, a few strands escaping as she moved.

Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket. She pulled it out, smiling when she saw the name: Elena - Boutique Manager.

"Leah, darling," Elena's voice came through, warm and effusive. "I just hung up with Timothy. You know, Mr. Harrington himself called personally this time."

Leah's breath caught. Timothy Harrington, the owner of the Harrington Collective... three high-end boutiques across the city, with plans for a fourth. A name that carried weight in the fashion world.

"He saw the new pieces you delivered last week," Elena continued, excitement bubbling. "The emerald silk blouse with the hand-embroidered cuffs? The ivory midi dress with the asymmetrical hem? He was obsessed. Said the attention to detail was 'exquisite', his exact word. Told me the emerald sold out in two days, and we've already had three customers ask if you're taking custom orders."

Leah pressed a hand to her chest, brown eyes widening. "Really?"

"Really," Elena laughed. "He said, and I quote, 'Whoever this Leah Wilson is, she's got something special. Vision. Passion. Tell her we want more... exclusive, if she's willing.' He's talking about featuring your name on the labels next season. Your name, Leah."

A soft gasp escaped her. She leaned against the wall for support, swatches clutched tight.

"That's... I don't even know what to say."

"Say thank you by keeping those beautiful designs coming," Elena teased. "Seriously, love, he's not easily impressed. You're making waves. People are starting to ask for 'the Leah pieces.' You're building a name, sweetheart. A real one."

Leah closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. All the late nights sketching at the kitchen table while Ciaran was at the hospital, the early mornings cutting patterns before the sun rose, the quiet pride she took in every stitch, it was starting to mean something beyond their spare bedroom.

"Thank you, Elena," she said finally, voice thick with emotion. "Truly. Tell Mr. Harrington thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I'll have the new sketches ready by Friday."

"You do that," Elena replied fondly. "And Leah? Keep believing in yourself. You're going places."

The call ended.

Leah stood there a moment longer, phone still in hand, a slow, radiant smile spreading across her face. For the first time in a long while, something felt like it belonged entirely to her... something growing, thriving, even when everything else felt fragile.

She tucked the phone away, straightened her shoulders, and walked back into the boutique with a quiet, determined light in her eyes.

Leah Wilson was just beginning.

*******

The corner cafe was quiet mid-morning, sunlight slanting through the tall windows and warming the worn wooden tables. Ciaran sat in their usual booth at the back, nursing a black coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago.

Across from him, Ronan Kelley leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching his oldest friend with that steady, unflinching calm he'd always had.

They'd been mates since med school, Ronan the family medicine GP who'd chosen a quieter life, Ciaran the rising star in cardiothoracic surgery. Ronan had been best man at the wedding, godfather to the children they still didn't have, and the one person who never hesitated to call Ciaran on his bullsh-it.

"So," Ronan said finally, breaking the silence. "You look like absolute he-ll. What happened?"

Ciaran exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. "I missed our fifth anniversary. Completely."

Ronan's brow lifted, but he stayed quiet, letting Ciaran talk.

"I got pulled into an emergency bypass, couldn't hand it off. Told Leah I'd be home for dinner. She'd planned everything: cooked my favorite pasta, baked that vanilla-raspberry cake from scratch, lilies on the table, the whole thing." His voice roughened. "I didn't walk in until after four a.m. She'd fallen asleep waiting. When I got home... the cake was in the bin. Petals torn off the flowers. Pasta scraped into the sink."

He stared into his coffee, jaw tight. "She'd thrown it all away, Ronan. Because I didn't show."

Ronan let the silence settle for a moment, then spoke... gentle, but firm.

"Ciaran, you're the best da-mn surgeon I know. You save lives every day that no one else could. But you're letting your own life flatline."

Ciaran looked up, green eyes defensive. "It was an emergency-"

"I know," Ronan interrupted calmly. "And there'll always be another emergency. That's the job. But marriage isn't a patient you can put on hold until the crisis is over. Leah isn't asking you to stop being a surgeon. She's asking you to be her husband too."

Ciaran's shoulders sagged.

"You think she doesn't understand the stakes?" Ronan continued. "She's known you for twenty years. She's proud of you... God, she lights up talking about you. But pride doesn't keep someone warm at night. It doesn't sit across from an anniversary dinner for one."

Ciaran rubbed a hand over his face. "I promised her a vacation. Cleared my schedule next month. Bought her this necklace-"

"Gifts are grand," Ronan said, "but time is the currency she's running out of. You have to balance it, mate. Real balance. Not 'I'll make it up later.' Set boundaries at work. Say no sometimes. Delegate. The hospital won't fall apart if Dr. Ciaran Wilson takes a proper evening off once in a while."

He leaned forward, voice softer. "You chose her once, outside her college in the pouring rain, skipping lectures just to see her smile. Don't let the man who fought for her lose to the surgeon who can't stop saving everyone else."

Ciaran stared at him for a long moment, something raw flickering behind his eyes.

"I don't want to lose her," he said quietly.

"Then stop acting like you have forever to fix it," Ronan replied. "Start today. Go home early. Turn the phone off. Sit with her. Listen. Show her the man she married is still in there... and that he chooses her, every single day."

Ciaran nodded slowly, the weight of the words settling deep.

Ronan reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. "You've got this, Ciaran. You save hearts for a living. Start with your own, and hers."

Ciaran managed a small, grateful smile. For the first time in months, it reached his eyes.

*******

Ciaran glanced at the clock above the nurses' station: 5:12 p.m. For the first time in months, his list was clear, no pending consults, no follow-ups, no emergencies on the board. He'd already texted Leah: Leaving in ten. Home by six. Can't wait to see you.

He shrugged on his coat, phone in hand, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he pictured her face when he walked through the door early.

Then Betty appeared at his elbow, chart in hand, expression carefully urgent.

"Ciaran, wait. Mr. Delaney in ICU, post-op day two from your triple bypass last week, just spiked a fever and his drainage turned bloody. The resident's worried about possible mediastinitis."

He paused, green eyes narrowing. "Who's covering cardio-thoracic tonight?"

"Ramirez is on call, but..." Betty lowered her voice, leaning in just enough. "The family's asking for you specifically. They trust you. And honestly, the resident's good, but this is your patient. If it's infection, you're the one who knows the anatomy best from the OR."

Ciaran's jaw tightened. He could delegate. He *should* delegate. Ronan's words echoed in his head: *Set boundaries. Say no sometimes.*

But Mr. Delaney, sixty-two, father of three, first grandchild on the way, flashed through his mind. The man had coded on the table twice before Ciaran got him stable. The family's tearful gratitude afterward still sat heavy in his chest.

He exhaled through his nose. "Fine. I'll see him quick. Page Ramirez too, I'm not staying all night."

Betty's smile was small, sympathetic. "Of course. You're the best, Ciaran."

He turned back toward the ICU, coat slipping off his arm as he went, phone still in hand. He fired off a quick text to Leah:

Complication with a patient from last week. Family asked for me. Won't be long, still aiming for home soon. Love you.

He hit send, then silenced the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

By the time he'd reviewed the charts, examined Delaney, ordered new cultures and imaging, consulted with ID, and reassured the tearful daughter at the bedside, the clock read 8:47 p.m.

Ramirez had arrived, competent and grateful, but Ciaran stayed to walk him through the nuances of the case, "just in case." Betty lingered nearby, offering coffee, pulling him into "quick" updates on two other patients.

When he finally stepped out of the hospital doors, the night air sharp against his skin, it was past eleven.

His phone showed no new messages from Leah.

He stared at the dark screen for a long moment, guilt settling like lead in his stomach.

Another promise broken.

He got into the car anyway, started the engine, and drove home... late again, carrying the weight of a life he'd saved and a marriage he was slowly losing.

*******