Page 128 of The Love Operation

Then—he’s there.

Out of the rain, out of nowhere, Benedict is suddenly in front of me.

“I can’t stop,” I say, already trying to move past him. “I have to talk to the professor. I have to see if—”

His hand closes gently around my arm. “Hey.”

I pause. Only for a second. My legs itch to run, but his voice—his touch—anchors me.

He steps closer, both hands settling on my soaked shoulders, and meets my eyes. For a moment, everything else dissolves: the rush of rain, the pounding panic, the scurrying students.

It’s just him and me.

“This isn’t the end of the world,” he says, voice calm and steady. “You made a mistake. That’s all. You’ll fix it. But you’ve got to breathe first.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He presses his forehead to mine.

The world flickers like a blown candle flame . . . then steadies.

His hands don’t grip; they hold. Not too tight. Just enough to call me back into myself.

No one’s ever done this for me. Not like this. Because I’m the strong one, the one who lifts everyone else up, who carries the weight with elegance and grace, never showing how heavy it is.

I close my eyes and feel the rhythm of our breathing sync. Rain drips from my lashes. My heartbeat slows. My body listens to his.

His arms come around me. In a rare moment of surrender, I fold into him, drenched and shaking, and the love I feel—the love—blooms so big I don’t trust my body to hold it. It’s too much. Too full. Too good.

Benedict has dropped everything to come find me—intercept me—and calm me down.

“I love you,” I whisper. It’s not the first time I’ve said it. It won’t be the last. But it lands differently now. This isn’t butterflies or late-night kisses or flirty notes passed in lecture. This is deeper. Bone deep.

It’s the kind of love that doesn’t ask why. It just is.

He tightens his arms. “I love you too.”

I pull back, just far enough to really look at him. “Did you leave class?”

He nods.

“You shouldn’t have—”

He lifts a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

And I get it. In that simple gesture, I understand. After he heard my voice, he couldn’t not come. Just like I wouldn’t be able to stay away if our roles were reversed. That’s how it is when someone matters. Their pain becomes your emergency. It’s not a question of if you’ll show up. It’s when.

“Go,” he says softly. “Handle this the way you handle everything else. You’ll be okay.”

I nod, but I want to stay here, inside this moment. Inside this breath. Inside his arms. But I say, “I’ll be okay.”

“Damn right, you will. You’re Cordelia Wren.” He smiles, rain glittering on his cheeks like silver threads. This reminder isn’t a heavy one. It’s shared belief. He sees me.

I wipe a drop from his face, but it’s instantly replaced by another.

“Thank you,” I breathe.

He kisses me softly, sealing the moment, stitching it into the fabric of us. It gives me wings.