Warmth arrives before sound does.
A slow, creeping heat draped around my back, like someone tucked me against a furnace.
The bed shifts and the heat leaves.
The world is black first. Heavy. Thick. As if my eyelids are made of stone. A distant voice filters through the dark, distorted and echoing, like hearing someone call through a tunnel underwater.
“… swelling is down, but she’s not stabilizing as fast as we hoped…”
Another voice, deeper, ragged around the edges.
“Make her.”
My heart stirs at that sound. My husband. The shadows flicker. My eyes drag open for a fraction of a second. Everythingblurs into gray shapes. A tall figure pacing. Another standing. The doctor’s voice is timid. Gustav’s voice is not. It snaps like a brittle branch.
“You said she would wake.”
A soft response. A careful explanation.
“It could be days… weeks… trauma of that magnitude… her skull fractured so badly.”
Something crashes. Wood splinters. Metal clatters. The doctor flinches hard enough that his silhouette jumps in my blurred vision.
I try to breathe a little deeper. Try to lift a hand. Nothing obeys. The darkness pulls me under again.
When awareness returns, it comes with the sensation of lips brushing the back of my neck.
Slow. Desperate. Worshipping.
I cannot see, but I know exactly who is holding me. His chest is at my back, solid and warm, the familiar hardness of his arm caging me against him. He squeezes me closer like his body remembers how to love even while his mind frays.
“Please wake up,” he breathes against my skin. “I miss you. I love you. Ineedyou. Myshka.”
His voice is wrecked. Nothing like the brutal bravado he shows the world.
I want to tell him I’m here, that I’m trying. My throat burns when I try to swallow. Something tugs at my arm. Tubing. Needles. IVs.
Panic sparks in my chest.
How long have I been here?
My breathing changes. He notices instantly.
“Peighton?” he whispers, hope flickering like a candle in his voice. His palm slides up my stomach, flattening over my ribs, as if checking whether I’m real. “Peighton, moyá devushka, can you hear me?”
I try to speak. Only a tiny breath escapes, and the strain is too much. Everything tilts. The world slips sideways, and I fall back into the dark.
The next time I surface, daylight pours through tall windows. My lashes are heavy but part enough to see him slumped in a chair near the glass, head tilted back against the wall. His posture is rigid even in sleep, as if he’s guarding the room from threats that dare approach.
His hair is longer. Shaggier. His jaw shadowed by a dark, untrimmed beard. He looks exhausted. More than that — haunted.
I want to speak, but my mouth won’t move. My arms feel like lead. I try to blink slowly, hoping he will notice. Nothing comes out except a small, fragile exhale.
The door opens.
Keira steps inside, her face drawn, eyes puffy. She turns to Gustav. He already awakened like my watchdog.
“Gustav. You need to walk,” she says quietly. “Stretch your legs. Eat properly. I’ll watch her.”
