Page 7 of Vital Signs
I expected the usual response, lectures about choices, about strength, about how I just needed to want it enough. Instead,I found only understanding in those brown eyes. Quiet recognition that made something in my chest tighten.
"I'm sorry about Tyler," he said softly, and somehow it sounded like he meant both Tyler's death and my current state. Like he understood they were connected. "Would you like to see him now? We can discuss what happened after you've had some time with him."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He studied me a moment longer, eyes lingering on the scars visible on my knuckles, the tremor in my hands, the sweat beading at my temples despite the cold.
"This way. I've been taking care of him myself." He led me to a wall of refrigerated drawers, pulling one open. "I corrected the paperwork the county sent over. They had him listed as a Jane Doe."
Something tight in my chest loosened slightly at that. Tyler had fought so hard to be seen correctly.
The drawer slid out smoothly. He carefully folded back the sheet covering Tyler, revealing his face. He looked peaceful, skin waxy and pale. Someone had taken care to arrange his hair neatly, the rest of his body remaining respectfully covered.
Someone. This man. Michael. He'd done this. Treated Tyler with dignity the county hadn't bothered with.
"I'll give you a moment," he said quietly, stepping back.
But not far. Just to the other side of the room, where he pretended to busy himself with paperwork. Close enough if I needed him. Far enough to give me space.
The consideration in that simple act, knowing when to stay and when to go, made my throat tighten for reasons beyond grief.
A wave of sorrow slammed into me at the sight of Tyler's face, and my knees buckled. I caught myself on the edge of the drawer, an inhuman sound tearing from my throat.
Footsteps. Quick but not rushed. Then a hand on my shoulder, steady, warm through my jacket.
"I've got you," Michael said.
I'd spent four years making sure no one touched me unless I paid them. Four years of avoiding human connection beyond transactions. And here was this stranger, this beautiful stranger who should've called the cops, holding me together while I shattered.
It should have been wrong. Instead, it was the first right thing in years.
I stared at Tyler's face. This was the same face that had lit up when I'd first called him by his chosen name. The same face that had shown such determination when he talked about his future. Now it was forever still.
"Fuck, kid," I whispered, voice breaking. "You weren't supposed to go before me."
Tyler's face blurred. Jordan, twenty-six, oxygen dropping. No ventilators left. iPad screen. Mother crying. "Please don't let my baby die alone." My face shield fogging. Sweat pooling. Next patient. Next. Next.
I shook my head sharply. Tyler. This was Tyler. I wasn't in the ER anymore. Hadn't been there in a long time.
"I need some air," I managed to say, voice raw. "Just... need a minute."
Michael retracted his hand. "Take your time. I'll be here when you’re ready.”
I stumbled toward the stairs, needing distance from Tyler, from grief, from this man who looked at me like I was worth waiting for. My hands shook worse now, withdrawal and emotion and something else I couldn't name.
At the doorway, I paused. Looked back.
Misha stood beside Tyler's body, one hand resting gently on the drawer edge. The light caught his profile—sharp cheekbones,elegant neck—the kind of beauty that belonged in museums, not morgues.
"Thank you," I forced out. "For taking care of him."
"I'll keep taking care of him," Michael said, meeting my eyes across the distance. "Until someone claims him properly. Until he gets the justice he deserves."
Justice. The word hung between us like a promise. Like an invitation.
I nodded once and fled before I did something stupid. Like stay. Like ask this stranger to save me the way he'd tried to save Tyler.
Like believe someone that beautiful could look at someone like me and see anything worth saving.
