I knew Beau was too.
We had rarely been alone since I’d woken up. The short instances of consciousness were infuriating because I wanted more time with Clara, but it helped ensure that I didn’t have to have any one-on-one conversations with Beau.
Unfortunately, it had to happen eventually.
Elliot had taken Clara on a pastry run. Cole was back in New York for the night. Everyone else had various other things to do.
It was just me and Beau, our breakup the tangible elephant in the room. His grief. Guilt.
“I almost lost you, Hannah,” Beau whispered from where he sat beside my bed. His eyes were red, bloodshot. There were dark circles under them. His clothes were rumpled. It was clearhe had been sleeping at the hospital. Or at least spending all his time here.
“You did lose me. Doesn’t it count as losing someone when you break up with them?” My voice was not sharp or cruel—I didn’t have the energy for that.
Beau flinched. He visibly flinched as if I had struck him.
I didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt me. It did. I hated seeing Beau like that. But he did this. To himself. To both of us.
“Hannah.” He leaned forward, taking my hand.
Though the grip was comforting, like coming home, I gently pulled back. I didn’t have much strength yet—it unnerved me how weak I was—but I didn’t need it. Beau noted my need, and he instantly released it, although it looked like it pained him to do so.
It pained me too. I wanted his touch. I wanted to curl into his embrace and feel safe and protected.
“You broke up with me, remember? I appreciate you being here, but now I’m just your nanny again.” I considered what I’d just said. “Well, given my current situation, I’ll be unable to do my job, so you’ll have to find someone else.”
The words were said in a flat tone. I was on heavy painkillers to dull the physical ache of my wounds. Too bad they didn’t help with the agonizing emotional wounds.
Beau’s eyes were intent on me, hurt but determined. “You’re notjustanything, Hannah,” he growled. “You’re mine. You’re Clara’s. There is no one else. You’re our family.”
The words hurt about as much as the gunshot wound to the chest. And that hurt fucking bad.
“I was,” I corrected him. “Or I could’ve been. But you made sure I wasn’t.”
“I was wrong,” Beau huffed out.
“You were,” I agreed. “But if it takes me almost dying for you to realize that, we were never going to survive.”
The words left a rancid taste in my mouth, whether they were true or not.
Beau clenched his jaw and cracked his knuckles. He wanted to argue. I could see that clear as day. Beau was not a person to lay down and admit defeat.
But Beau was also observant. He was a caretaker of those he loved. He was protective. And he’d noted the hitch in my breath as I spoke, the weakness in my arm as I tried to pull away from him.
I’d recently woken up from a medically induced coma after being shot in the chest. I barely had the energy to lift a glass of water to my mouth—not that Beau had let me do so—let alone fight with him.
So he backed down.
“You need rest,” he spoke through gritted teeth, leaning forward to fluff my pillow. He then grasped the water at my bedside, lifting it to my mouth.
Though I didn’t want him to be my caretaker—oh, but I secretly wanted to be taken care of by him—I was thirsty and tired. So I drank the water, let him fluff my pillow.
I didn’t recoil from him when he gently brushed the hair from my face or when he delicately cupped my cheek. I told myself it was because I was too tired. Not because I desperately wanted Beau’s touch. Because even then, I ached for him to save me.
There were no more conversations about where Beau and I stood romantically. I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t have the heart.
It was much too broken.
Not just because a bullet literally grazed it.
