Chapter 23
Anna
I woke slowly.
Not all at once—just enough to feel the weight of my body before I could open my eyes. The darkness peeled back in layers. Sound came first. A steady rhythm. A soft hum. Then light, muted and pale.
Hospital.
My throat felt dry. My limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, like they didn’t quite belong to me yet. Panic stirred, but it stayed distant, dulled by exhaustion.
I wasn’t alone.
I sensed it before I saw it.
When I turned my head—just a fraction—I found him there.
He was beside my bed, his head resting on the mattress near my hand, one arm folded beneath him. He must have fallen asleep like that, too close, too tired to move. His dark hair fell forward, slightly rumpled, his face relaxed.
He was the only one in the room.
No nurses. No family. Just him.
Something in my chest loosened.
He stayed.
I tried to move my fingers. It took effort, concentration, as if my body had forgotten how. Slowly, I lifted my hand.
My fingertips brushed his hair.
The contact was light, barely there—but real.
I slid my fingers through it, tentative at first, then a little surer, grounding myself in the sensation.
He stirred immediately.
His head shifted, lifting from the mattress as his eyes opened.
Dark. They locked onto mine, wide with disbelief. I saw him properly this time. Recognition struck like lightning. It’s him.
My heart jolted painfully in my chest. The doctor from that night. The one whose eyes had held mine across a crowded rooftop. The one I had tried so hard to forget. The one who had never quite left my thoughts.
I couldn’t believe it. He was here.
For a moment, neither of us moved. As if we were both afraid this would break if we did.
His voice came out hoarse. “You’re awake…” As he rubbed his eyes.
I couldn’t answer. My throat wouldn’t work. But my eyes burned.
You’re here, I tried to tell him.
And somehow, he understood.
Because his face crumpled just a little—relief, wonder, something raw and unguarded crossing his features—and in that moment, I knew this much was true…
Whatever I had lost in the dark, this man had been with me when I came back.
And that mattered more than anything.
His body went rigid first—like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Before I could react, he was on his feet.
Too fast.
Drawers opened. Equipment appeared in his hands. A light hovered near my eyes, then his fingers were at my wrist, careful but urgent, counting, measuring, grounding himself in numbers and facts. His movements were precise, practiced—but his breathing wasn’t. It was uneven, almost frantic.
I wanted to tell him I was still here. That I wasn’t scared. That he didn’t have to rush like I might disappear if he blinked.
But my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
A soft, breathless laugh escaped him as he straightened. Relief flooded his face so openly it startled me.
“You’re awake,” he said again, quieter this time, like the words were sacred.
He stepped closer—too close.
For a second, it looked like he might pull me into his arms.
I felt it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his hands hovered midair, uncertain. His gaze dropped to my face, then to my hand still resting on the bed.
Then he stopped himself.
Slowly, as if afraid to startle me, he reached for my hand. His fingers wrapped around mine, warm and steady despite the storm behind his eyes. He lifted it, hesitated—and then pressed his lips to my knuckles.
The kiss was soft. Reverent. Too intimate for a hospital room.
He pulled back immediately, colour rising in his cheeks. “I…” He exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.”
For what? I wondered.
For feeling too much?
For being here when no one else was?
“I’ve been waiting four months for this moment,” he said quietly.
Then he straightened, forcing distance between us, slipping back into a role like armour.
“Hi, Miss. Mathews,” he said gently. “I’m Dr. Collins. Your neurosurgeon.”
The words should have sounded clinical.
They didn’t. Not when his eyes kept flicking back to mine, as if he needed constant proof that I was real. That I hadn’t slipped back into the dark.
I couldn’t speak. My eyes moved, my fingers twitched, but my voice stayed locked inside me.
He reached for the call button and pressed it.
“She’s awake,” he said, his voice steady, clipped, professional. “Call her family.”
Then he looked at me again.
For just a moment, his expression softened. His dark eyes lingered on mine, something unspoken flickering there. A hesitation, a quiet fear of leaving me alone, of stepping away now that I was awake.
But the moment the nurses and staff arrived, taking over, that softness vanished. The professional mask slid back into place. He stepped aside, then out of the room, leaving me surrounded by activity… and yet painfully aware of his absence.