Something warm unfurls in my chest at her fierce declaration, her immediate inclusion of herself in my problems. Despite everything I've just revealed, she's still here. Still fighting for me.
"Sandra," I say softly. "I'm sorry. For not telling you sooner. For dragging you into this mess."
She returns to my side, carefully perching on the edge of the bed. "You didn't drag me anywhere. I chose you, remember?" Her hand cups my cheek, mindful of the bruises. "And nothing you've told me changes that."
"I was a criminal," I remind her, needing her to fully understand. "I stole cars, stripped them, sold the parts. I knew what I was doing was wrong, and I did it anyway."
"And then you paid for it. You testified, you left that life behind." Her gaze is steady, unflinching. "The man I'm falling in love with is the one who rebuilt himself here, who helps his neighbors, who treats every car in his garage like it matters. That's who you are now."
The monitor beside the bed picks up my quickened heartbeat at her words. "I don't deserve you," I whisper.
"Probably not," she agrees with a small smile. "But you're stuck with me anyway."
I want to pull her down for a kiss, but even the thought of moving that much makes my ribs scream in protest. Instead, she leans forward, pressing her lips gently to mine in a kiss so tender it makes my throat tight with emotion.
"We'll figure this out," she promises when she pulls back. "Together."
Before I can respond, the door opens, and the doctor enters—Dr. Mawry, who stitched up Marcus last year when he sliced his hand open on a broken oil filter.
"Mr. Torres," she greets, picking up my chart. "How's the pain? Scale of one to ten?"
"Four," I lie. It's closer to seven, but I don't want more drugs clouding my thinking.
Dr. Mawry's skeptical expression says she doesn't believe me. "I'll increase your pain medication slightly. You have three broken ribs, a mild concussion, twenty-seven stitches across various lacerations, and extensive bruising. You're lucky to be alive, frankly."
Sandra's hand tightens around mine.
"How long am I stuck here?" I ask, already calculating days of lost work, bills to pay, Vanessa to deal with.
"At least two days for observation, given the concussion." Dr. Mawry makes notes in my chart. "And you'll need to take it easy for at least six weeks while those ribs heal. No heavy lifting. Limited time on your feet."
Six weeks. The garage can't run itself that long. And Sandra's car—we were making such good progress. Now everything's on hold because of my past, my mistakes.
"Can someone stay with him tonight?" Sandra asks, still holding my hand like she has no intention of letting go.
"Normally we'd limit visiting hours but given the circumstances..." Dr. Mawry glances between us, somethingsoftening in her professional demeanor. "I'll make an exception. That chair reclines, though it's not very comfortable."
"I'll manage," Sandra says firmly.
After the doctor leaves, promising to send a nurse with more pain medication, Sandra settles into the chair, pulling it as close to the bed as possible. "You should get some rest," she tells me, still holding my hand.
"You don't have to stay," I say, though selfishly I want her to. "The lodge would be more comfortable."
"I'm not leaving you alone," she states simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Not when Vanessa is still out there somewhere."
The fierce protectiveness in her voice warms something in me that's been cold for a very long time. "I'm supposed to be the one protecting you," I mutter.
"Partnership goes both ways, Casanova." She raises my hand to her lips, kissing my bruised knuckles. "Now, how about you tell me what we're going to do about this situation?"
Despite the pain, despite the seriousness of our predicament, I feel the corner of my mouth lift in a small smile. "We?"
"Yes, we." She fixes me with a determined stare. "Unless you think I'm planning to walk away from the best thing that's happened to me in years just because some ex with boundary issues showed up."
"The best thing, huh?" I can't help the warmth spreading through me at her words.
"Don't fish for compliments," she scolds, but her eyes are soft. "You know exactly what you mean to me."
I do, I realize. Maybe I've known since that first day in the garage when she refused to be intimidated by me, challenged every assumption I made. Something about Sandra Hemmings clicked into place in my life like a missing piece I hadn't known was gone.
