He hesitates, his hazel eyes giving me a quick once-over. He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, you can come in.”
As I slip through the door, I hear the others asking more questions, the doctor quietly answering, and then the door closes.
Quiet.
A lady in blue scrubs is writing something down on a board. She seems startled to see me, her brows lifting.
“I’m Meg,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Here to see Rafe.”
“So you’re Meg.” She smiles, a weary smile, and glances toward the other end of the room. “He just asked for you again. Better go talk to him.”
“How…?” My voice breaks, and I swallow. “Sorry. How is he? Like, really?”
“He’s more alert than he was an hour ago. He’s spending the night here, but hopefully by tomorrow he’ll be well enough to go home.”
I bite my lip and nod, my heart hammering. My hair has escaped my ponytail and hangs in my face. Impatiently I push it back.
Gathering my wits, I turn toward the bed, take the few steps separating us, and freeze.
It’s a shock to my system, seeing him like that. A needle is taped to his arm, an IV line snaking up to the twin bags hanging from a metal stand. His jaw is swollen, bruised a deep purple, one eye almost shut. The ink on his broad chest can’t hide the deep bruising.
Oh dear God, his side is black and blue. Really black and blue, like storm clouds, and I…
I’m still staring as the realization of how close he came again to dying seeps in. Guess he’s not the only one who has to deal with all that happened tonight.
A pristine white sheet is pulled up to his waist. His hands
lie on top of it, wrapped in bandages, blood spotting them. His face is relaxed. Not sure I’ve ever seen it so peaceful before. Even after making love, when he passed out in my arms, tension had lingered in the lines creasing his forehead and the tightening of his mouth.
Talking of tension… His hands twitch on the sheet, his breathing speeds up. His brows knit.
“Meg,” he whispers. “Meg.”
That breaks me from my paralysis. I sit on the bed and place my hand over his. His skin is cold. Why are hospitals always so cold?
“It’s me,” I say. “I’m here.”
His hand stills beneath mine, and his breathing stutters. His long lashes lift, until he’s looking right at me. Not a word leaves his lips. He just gazes at me, slowly blinking, his golden eyes glimmering.
My heart stops, then restarts with a boom. What’s this? I thought I knew what love was, but this is so much more, so much stronger. I want to spend my life with this man, have his children, follow him to the end of the world.
Shit.
“Stay,” I whisper into the silence and bend to brush my mouth over his. “Don’t leave.”
The same he’s asked of me.
His mouth tightens, and he looks away. His bruised face is hard to read, but when I shift to get a better look at his eyes, I see they’re wet.
The doctor, whose presence I forgot about, clears her throat and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I place a hand on his uninjured cheek, not knowing what to do. Asking him if he’s okay would be stupid. A single tear spills over, wetting my fingers.
And then he opens his arms, draws me in tight until I curl by his side, my head resting on his shoulder. I melt in his embrace, rest my hand on his chest to feel his heart beat, strong and steady.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers, the same words I spoke to him days ago. “Together.”
***