Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Luna
The smell of disinfectant filled the hospital corridor. It was cold, reminding me of London's chill.
But today, as I reached the private ward door, my mood felt worlds apart.
"Mommy, Daddy... Cassian still hasn't woken up?" Laila clutched my sleeve, whispering. She held a bunch of sunflowers she'd picked out at the roadside shop for ages, their bright yellow popping against the sterile hall.
"Shh, let's go in and see." I patted her shoulder and eased the door open.
Sunlight flooded in, warming us both.
Cassian lounged against the bed frame. Sunlight slanted across his thinner face, highlighting long lashes casting shadows, a straight nose, that sharp jawline still killer.
Maybe the injuries softened him. Without the suits, in baggy blue-and-white stripes, he looked heartbreakingly gentle.
He stared out the window, lost in thought. When he saw us, his eyes lit up, deep blue brimming with uncontained joy.
"Luna, Laila. You're here." He tried leaning forward, winced in pain, and just sat there, looking pitiful.
"Cassian!" Laila cheered and bolted over.
"Laila, slow down." I followed.
He strained to open his arms. Bandages wrapped his chest wound, but he pulled her in anyway, gentle as if she were fragile glass.
"For you." Laila shoved the sunflowers into his lap. "Cassian, you feeling better?"
"Much." He ruffled her hair.
"Mommy said it hurts." Laila wriggled free, yanked a crumpled Peppa Pig sticker from her pocket, and slapped it on his IV hand. "This'll make the pain fly away."
Cassian chuckled, eyes misting over.
He glanced up at me, voice hoarse but smiling. "Luna, look, it really doesn't hurt anymore."
Laila chattered on, but the door swung open. The doctor entered for rounds.
An old guy with white hair, gold-rimmed glasses, clutching reports. He checked the monitors, flipped pages, stayed calm.
"Recovering faster than expected." He said. "Not fatal, got here quick, surgery went smooth. Watch for complications, but next week, regular ward."
"Thanks, doctor." I said.
He nodded, eyed me, then Laila gazing up eagerly, and smiled. "Patient's lucky. Good base, but mood helps too. Company and hope speed things up."
Cassian stayed quiet, smiled, and squeezed my hand.
Laila scampered over, plopped on my lap. "Me too!"
He grinned, grabbed her hand. Laila beamed and launched into her dance class stories.
My phone buzzed like crazy in my bag. Amy.
I stepped onto the balcony. Amy sounded urgent. "Luna, Chicago's set. Theater manager loves your chops, they'll wait one more month."
My fingers twisted my hem. "A month? They're okay with that?"
I wanted to stay longer for Cassian, but not ditch my schedule.
"Yeah." Amy sighed. "That's the max. Delay and the national tour piles up—you're looking at three months of four-hour sleeps, maybe axing some encores. You sure?"
I glanced back through the glass. Cassian listened patiently to Laila, eyes flicking to me, full of tenderness.
"Let me think."
I hung up, walked in. Before I spoke, he did.
"Amy?" He tousled Laila's hair, casual as weather talk. "Go, Luna. The doctor says a week and I'll walk. Sloane's done—I got lawyers on her case, she'll rot in prison forever. No threats."
"But your leg..." I bit my lip, heart aching.
"My leg's not yours. Dance in Chicago, it'll heal faster."
He faked a stern face, but love shone through. "Luna, you belong center stage, shining. I promise, I'll heal right. Daily calls, updates." He smirked. "By your return, I'll walk."
"You—"
"Luna." Softly. "I won't hold you back. Never did, won't now. Dance. I'll wait."
I studied him. Pale, thin face. But his eyes shifted—from possession to trust. It eased me.
"One week." I said. "I'll stay till the regular ward, then go."
He nodded. "One week."
That week became our final, raw heart-to-heart buffer.
The next week felt unreal, the sweetest in my six years.
To make up for leaving, I camped at the hospital.
Mornings, I'd bring homemade oatmeal. He'd gripe about the blandness like a kid but finish under my gaze.
Mornings meant rehab. Two cracked ribs, fractured leg—no walking, but simple bed exercises were allowed.
Therapist showed arm lifts, fists, ankle flexes. He powered through, never complained, but sweat beaded his forehead.
I sat nearby, passed water, wiped sweat, counted reps.
"Five more sets." Therapist said.
He gritted teeth, kept going. Finished one, turned. "How many left?"
"Four."
Deep breath, on. Done, he slumped, panting. I toweled him. He closed eyes, lips curved.
"Tired?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Do it tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
I smiled.
Afternoons, best sun, I'd wheel him to the garden.
"Luna, I could try standing." He gripped armrests, like a boy proving himself.
"Shut it, Cassian. Doctor says rest." I knelt, tucked his blanket.
He reached, tucked hair behind my ear, eyes scorching, skipping my heartbeat. "Luna."
"Yeah?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. Just checking you're real."
Sometimes Chloe brought Laila.
Laila'd sprawl beside him, spilling recent adventures. Brought drawings or flowers.
That week brimmed with tender bits.
Once, I dozed at bedside. Woke to his good hand tracing circles in my palm.
I stirred; he didn't pull back, laced fingers tight.
"I used to think locking you in the King family made you mine." He kissed my knuckles, making me shiver. "Now I get it. As long as hearts connect, distance doesn't scare me."
This whole week, no fights, no contracts—just breaths mingling warm.
On the departure day, I arrived early. Cassian sat up, breakfast untouched, eyes on the door.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning." He watched me, reluctance hidden.
I fixed his food. Poured milk, jammed bread, peeled egg. He ate slowly.
"Packed?" he asked.
"Yeah. Chloe's driving to airport."
"When's the flight?"
"Two PM."
He nodded and kept eating. After he finished, he watched me clean. "Luna."
"Yeah?"
"Come here."
I approached. He grabbed my hand.
"Take care." His tone serious.
"Okay."
"Don't overdo it. Stay safe on stage."
"Okay." His cuteness made me laugh.
"Call me every day."
"Okay."
He stared, as if more words hung, but just released my hand.
"Go. Don't be late."
I met his eyes. There was reluctance, worry, love, but no pleas. He let go.
I leaned, kissed his forehead. "Wait for me."
"Yeah."
I left, glanced back at doorway. He sat bathed in sun, smiling.
I set off on the tour. Cassian's support gave me a strength I'd never felt before, and it led to a huge success at my opening show in Chicago.
The days on tour were incredibly busy. Rehearsals, performances, interviews, masterclasses—from morning till night, there was almost no time to breathe.
But every single day, I called him. When I woke up in the morning, and again when the show ended at night. Sometimes we talked for a long time, sometimes just a few words, but we spoke every day without fail.
On the night the tour finally ended, I flew straight back to Washington overnight. The entire ride from the airport to the hospital, my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest.
When I pushed open the door to his hospital room, Cassian was already sitting up on the edge of the bed, bandages still wrapped around his body. The moment he saw me, that familiar, mischievous smile appeared on his face.
"You came back faster than I expected," he said, his voice low and deep.
I dropped my suitcase aside and practically threw myself into his arms. I was careful not to press too hard on his wounds, but he didn't care at all. One hand gripped my lower back and pulled me even closer.
"Be gentle... you're still not fully healed," I gasped, burying my face in the crook of his neck.
"I'm getting discharged tomorrow," he replied. His fingers traced slowly down my spine, caressing me through the thin fabric of my clothes. "I've been going crazy missing you, Luna."
I lifted my eyes to meet his, my lips nearly brushing against his chin. "Then... can you hold on just a little longer?"
He let out a low chuckle, his nose grazing the shell of my ear, his voice hoarse and fierce. "I've held on this long. Isn't that enough?"
My body went weak. I couldn't say another word and simply melted into his kiss.
On our first night home after he was discharged, we decorated the room together.
I arranged the little souvenirs I'd brought back from the different cities on the tour onto the bookshelf, while Cassian stood behind me, pretending to help hang a painting.
In reality, his arms were wrapped around my waist the whole time.
His chest pressed firmly against my back, his warm breath brushing the side of my neck.
Every slight movement caused the fabric between us to rub together with soft, intimate sounds.
"Should I hang it... here?" I leaned forward a little, my hips pressing back against him.
Cassian's breathing grew noticeably heavier. Instead of answering, he slid one hand from my waist to my lower abdomen, pressing down slowly through my clothes. The pressure wasn't heavy, but it was enough to make my legs go weak.
"Cassian..." I bit my lower lip, my voice trembling slightly. "Laila is still painting next door."
"She's really focused," he murmured, lowering his head so his lips grazed my earlobe before gently taking it between them. "She won't come out anytime soon."
That familiar scent of cedarwood instantly enveloped me. His palm slid across my side again, wandering upward restlessly until it stopped at my collarbone. His fingertips traced and caressed the prominent bones there, shaped by years of dance training.
"The tour must have been exhausting. You've lost weight," he whispered against the back of my ear, his warm breath spilling into the hollow of my neck and sending involuntary shivers through me.
"I'm okay..." I turned around to face him, meeting those deep, bottomless eyes.