Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One: The Tantrum and the Truth
The morning light was too bright, the hospital room too quiet, and the man sitting beside my bed was still impossibly handsome.
I had been watching him for hours—the way he moved, the way his hands looked holding a thermometer, the way his brow furrowed when he checked my vitals like I was the most important patient in the world. He was gentle. Patient. Annoyingly attentive.
And I was bored.
"You're staring again," he said, not looking up from the chart in his hands.
"I'm observing," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Staring is passive. Observing is intellectual." I tilted my head, letting my gaze drift over the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the broad shoulders beneath his white coat. "You're very easy to observe."
His lips twitched—the ghost of a smile, quickly suppressed. "I'm glad my appearance meets your intellectual standards."
"It exceeds them." I sat up straighter, adjusting the pillows behind me. "Hey, handsome."
He finally looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "Yes?"
"Are you single?"
The question hung in the air between us. He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"No," he said finally. "I'm not single."
My heart sank. Just a little. "Oh."
"I'm married." He set the chart down, his voice soft but firm. "I love someone very much."
Married. Someone. Very much.
I looked away, my chest tight with a disappointment I didn't understand. I didn't even know this man. I couldn't remember my own name half the time. Why did it matter if he was married?
But it did.
It mattered.
"What?" I pouted, crossing my arms over my chest. "You're married? Married means you have someone? What about me?"
His eyes widened, just slightly. "What about you?"
"I'm here." I gestured at myself, at the hospital bed, at the IV still taped to my hand. "I'm your patient. I'm—" I faltered, suddenly unsure what I was trying to say. "I'm right here."
"I know you are." His voice was gentle, careful. "And I'm taking care of you. That's my job."
"Your job." The words tasted bitter. "So you're only here because it's your job?"
"I'm here because I want to be."
"Then be mine." The words came out before I could stop them, fierce and desperate and ridiculous. "I will be a very good wife. You can take care of me forever."
He went very still.
For a long moment, he just stared at me—his dark eyes searching my face, reading something I couldn't hide. His jaw tightened. His throat moved. His hands, resting on the edge of the bed, curled into fists.
"I'm not available," he said finally, his voice rough. "I just take care of you."
I looked away.
The pout was back on my lips, my arms crossed tighter, my chin lifted in defiance. But my chest ached—a hollow, empty ache that had nothing to do with the wound in my shoulder.
"I don't need your help," I said, my voice smaller than I intended. "Get out of here. I hate you."
"Aish—"
"Don't call me that!" I turned my face toward the window, refusing to look at him. "I don't even know what that means. I don't know anything. I don't know who I am or why I'm here or why—" My voice cracked. "I don't need your help. I can take care of myself. You go to that someone. Go to her. I don't care."
The silence that followed was heavy.
I heard him stand. Heard his footsteps cross the room. Heard the soft click of the door opening—
And then closing.
He was gone.
The tears came then—hot and silent, sliding down my cheeks, dripping onto the white hospital sheets. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to muffle the sobs, but they came anyway. Great, heaving, ugly things that shook my whole body.
I didn't understand why I was crying.
I didn't understand anything.
---
An hour passed. Maybe two.
The nurses came and went, checking my vitals, adjusting my pillows, offering soft words I didn't hear. I answered their questions mechanically, nodded when I was supposed to nod, smiled when I was supposed to smile.
But my eyes kept drifting to the door.
Waiting.
Hoping.
He didn't come back.
I told him to leave. I told him I hated him. I told him to go to her—his wife, his someone, the woman he loved very much.
And he had listened.
The tears started again.
---
The door opened.
I didn't look up. I was staring at my hands, at the IV taped to my wrist, at the pale skin that seemed to belong to a stranger.
"I brought you soup."
His voice.
My head snapped up.
He stood in the doorway, a tray in his hands, his white coat gone, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it, and there were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there this morning.
"I thought you left," I whispered.
"I did." He walked toward me, setting the tray on the bedside table. "I went to get you soup. You haven't eaten all day."
"I told you to leave."
"I know."
"I told you I hated you."
"I know." He sat in the chair beside my bed, close enough that I could smell him—something clean and warm, something that made my chest ache. "You also told me you'd be a very good wife. I'm choosing to focus on that."
I stared at him.
"You're impossible," I said.
"So I've been told." He picked up the spoon, dipping it into the steaming broth. "Open up."
"I can feed myself."
"I know you can. But I want to do it."
I opened my mouth.
The soup was warm, savory, the kind of comfort I didn't know I needed. He fed me slowly, patiently, waiting between each bite for me to chew and swallow.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked finally. "After I yelled at you?"
"Because you're scared." He set the spoon down, his eyes meeting mine. "Because you don't remember who you are, and that terrifies you, and sometimes terrified people say things they don't mean."
"How do you know I didn't mean it?"
"Did you?"
I looked away.
"No," I admitted. "I didn't."
"I know." He picked up the spoon again. "Now stop pouting and eat your soup."
"I'm not pouting."
"You're absolutely pouting. It's very cute. Very ineffective, but very cute."
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to push him away, to tell him to leave again, to protect myself from whatever this was—this pull, this ache, this desperate need to be near someone I didn't even remember.
But I was tired.
And he was warm.
And the soup was good.
"You're married," I said quietly.
"Yes."
"Do you love her?"
He was silent for a moment. His hand stilled on the spoon, his eyes fixed on something I couldn't see.
"More than anything," he said finally. "More than my own life."
My heart cracked.
But something else flickered beneath the pain—something I didn't understand. A memory, maybe. Or the ghost of one.
"She's lucky," I whispered.
He looked at me. His eyes were bright, wet, like he was holding back tears.
"No," he said softly. "I'm the lucky one."
He fed me the rest of the soup in silence.
And when I fell asleep that night, his hand was wrapped around mine, warm and steady, like it had been there all along.
Like it would never let go.