His fiancée’s chair.
I hovered halfway, heart slamming, shame flooding me hot and fast.
Then Dylan’s monitor gave one steady beep.
And another.
And another.
Still here.
Still fighting.
I sank slowly into the chair.
“I know,” I whispered to the empty room. “I know I shouldn’t be here.”
The machines answered for him.
I reached for his hand, then stopped with my fingers hovering above his.
Permission.
That stupid word.
That impossible word.
How did you ask permission from an unconscious man to touch the hand of someone who had once been the whole shape of your heart?
I touched him anyway.
Just his fingers at first.
Lightly.
Like he might vanish if I held too tight.
His skin was warmer than I expected. Not strong. Not like before. But warm. Alive beneath the bruises and tape and hospital pallor.
A sob rose so fast I had to press my lips together to keep it inside.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His hand did not move.
I curled my fingers around his.
Carefully.
“You’re really bad at staying away from me.”
Nothing.
“Which is funny,” I continued, voice shaking, “because you were so committed to it when you were conscious.”
A tear slid down my cheek and dropped onto the blanket.
I wiped it quickly, ridiculous instinct, like Dylan would wake up offended that I had cried on hospital linen.
