Doctor Ramirez arrived with his usual calm confidence, going over everything one last time. “We’ll take good care of you, Tyler. Just focus on breathing, and when you wake up, we’ll be a little further down this road.”
I nodded, my throat too dry to answer.
They came to take me in, Marcus bent low, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered back, my voice breaking a little. “Stay close.”
“Always.”
When the mask came down over my face, cool air hissing as the anesthesia took hold. Mylast thought before everything went black was of Marcus telling me he loved me.
The world came backin pieces.
First, the steady beep of a monitor somewhere to my right. Then, the low hum of voices, distant and muted, as though I was underwater. My body felt heavy, weighed down by something thick and unmoving. My throat was dry, my mouth like sandpaper.
And then, I felt him.
Marcus’s touch. Steady. Warm. Grounding.
I blinked, my eyes fighting the bright lights until his face came into focus. He was sitting in the chair beside the bed, leaning forward, close, his thumb brushing soft circles over the back of my hand.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough with relief. “There you are.”
I tried to speak, but my throat caught. Marcus reached for a cup with a straw, guiding it to my lips. The water was cold, sharp, but perfect.
“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Surgery’s done.”
I swallowed again, my gaze drifting to thebandages across my chest and shoulder, the tight pressure of the new grafts obvious even through the meds fogging my brain. But I was here. I was still here.
“It’s over?” I rasped.
Marcus smiled, his eyes shining. “You did great. Ramirez said everything went exactly as planned.”
I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes for a moment. The anxiety I’d carried for weeks loosened, falling away in pieces. When I opened my eyes again, Marcus was still there, his gaze never leaving me.
“You stayed,” I whispered, though I’d known he would.
“Of course I did.”
The first nightwas always the hardest.
Even with the pain meds dulling most of it, I felt everything: the ache beneath the bandages, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, the strange disorientation of unfamiliar walls, beeping monitors, and that sharp hospital smell that clung to everything.
Marcus hadn’t left.
Who was the doctor at Guardian Hall when he wasn’t there? I should tell him to go back.
I couldn’t make words.
He sat in the chair by my bed, his fingers running slow, steady circles against my skin as though he was trying to ground me even while I drifted in and out.
Every time I surfaced from sleep, he was there. Sometimes watching me, sometimes reading under the dim light, but always there. That tether again. My anchor.
The nurses came and went through the night, checking vitals, adjusting IVs, speaking in quiet voices. I hated how vulnerable I felt. Hated the helplessness. But every time I glanced at Marcus, the tension eased just a little.
Around two in the morning, I woke with a start—some echo of a dream still clinging to me—but Marcus was already leaning forward.
“Hey,” he whispered. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
