Owen
“Maya’s medical history proves a track record of quick healing,” the doctor tells me outside Amelia’s bedroom. “We should be able to take the cast off in three weeks, but it could be six. I told her six to avoid getting her hopes up.”
I thank her, then go back into Amelia’s room.
Amelia is sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty armchair across from her. My brain is screaming at me that this is not my mate and not my responsibility, but my body is clamoring to sweep Amelia into my arms and comfort her. I guess it’s some sort of compromise when I gently lower myself in the middle of the sofa.
Her hands are in her lap, her right arm in a cast from her wrist to her elbow. I ache to be there for her to lean on in a way that I don’t understand. She’s not my mate.
She’s not even a
