I pick at the fraying edge of the thin blanket and try to concentrate on the whiteboard with my name written on it in squeaky green marker.Olivia Reed.Date.Nurse’s name.Doctor’s name.Pain scale smiley faces.
I snort softly.If there were a chart for emotional pain, the little smiley would be screaming.
There is a soft knock on the doorframe and I look up.And, for a single heartbeat, everything else falls away.
He fills the space like he did the doorway to my bedroom.Broad shoulders, easy confidence, and that quiet, grounded presence like his gravity has its own weather system.Only now he’s not in turnout gear.No helmet.No mask.Just faded jeans, and a dark hoodie that clings in interesting ways to muscled arms, and that face that should come with a warning label.
Cole.Darren Cole, as the nurse informed me after he called to check on me.
He knocks lightly, even though he’s already standing there, like he’s asking my room for permission to hold him.
“Told you I’d check on you,” he says, voice low and warm.
My stupid heart does a somersault and lands in the wrong place.
“You did.”It comes out breathier than intended.Fantastic.If my pride weren’t already melted like the rest of my house, this would do it.
He steps inside with a carefulness that doesn’t fit his size, closing the door partway, like he’s shielding me from the hallway and the world beyond.He stops at the end of my bed instead of charging right to me.Thoughtful.Controlled.Aware.
His eyes scan me, the oxygen tube under my nose, the tape on my hand, the faint redness on my neck where the heat kissed too close.It isn’t a pitying look.It’s an inventory.A checking.
“You look better,” he says.
“Than what?”I arch a brow.“Than a smoked ham?Or than a raccoon that lost a fight with her mascara?”
He laughs, and the sound does sinful things to my insides.“Than someone whose bedroom tried to become a portal to hell.”
“Ah.”I shrug one shoulder.“Low bar.”
Silence hums, but it isn’t uncomfortable.It’s ...charged.Like the air before a storm or like the moment right before someone confesses a crush they shouldn’t have.
He shoves his hands into the hoodie pockets, thumbs lingering at the edges like he needs them busy.“How do you feel?”
“Like I licked a chimney,” I admit.“My lungs hate me.My throat feels like I deep throated a cactus.”
His mouth curves slowly.Slowly.
“Graphic,” he says, tone dipped thick with something that makes my toes curl against the cool sheets.
I blink and then groan.“Oh, my God.Ignore that.Delete it.Pretend I didn’t say it.”
“Nope,” he replies instantly, grin widening, eyes heating in that way that says he very much did not delete it.“Keeping it forever.”
I grip the blanket tighter because my body is apparently a traitor.My brain is sayingtoo youngwhile my hormones are rolling around on the floor like,yes, hello, sign me up for whatever he’s selling.
He moves closer, dragging the chair from the corner to my bedside.He sits, knees spreading naturally, forearms resting on his thighs, leaning in like I’m the only thing he plans to do today.
“You scared me,” he admits.
I blink.“I scared you?”
He nods once.“Walking in and not knowing if you were conscious.If you were breathing.”He swallows, jaw working like he doesn’t talk about this part often.“Sometimes we’re too late.I hate being too late.”
There’s weight in his words, history, something raw and personal coiled under the calm.
“I’m ...sorry,” I say softly, because what do you say to the guy who pulled you out of the burning version of your worst nightmare?“For scaring you, I mean.Not for being rescued.I kind of appreciate that part.”
He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh.“Good.I’d hate to think I carried you out against your will.”
