55. Hannah
Hannah
“Pressure’s stabilizing.”
I don’t look up.
“Define stabilizing,” I snap.
“Still low—but holding.”
Holding.
Not good.
Not safe.
But not dropping.
I’ll take it.
“For now,” I mutter.
My hands don’t stop moving.
Adjusting.
Checking.
Rechecking.
Because “for now” isn’t good enough.
Not for him.
Not after everything it took to get him here.
“Doctor,” one of the medics says carefully, “you need to sit down.”
I ignore him.
“Doctor—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
My voice cuts clean.
Sharp enough that he steps back.
Good.
Because I’m not leaving this table.
Not until I know—
Not until—
Clay’s breathing shifts.
Subtle.
But different.
I freeze for half a second.
Then lean in closer.
“Clay?”
No response.
But his chest rises again.
Stronger this time.
My pulse kicks up.
“Stay with me,” I say, quieter now. Focused.
“Vitals are improving,” someone says behind me.
I don’t answer.
I don’t trust it yet.
I’ve seen too many people turn around—
And then crash again.
Not him.
Not this time.
Not after—
My hand presses lightly against his side, adjusting pressure.
Careful.
Controlled.
Even though everything in me is anything but.
“Why are you still standing?” a voice mutters behind me.
I don’t turn.
“Because he is.”
Silence.
No one argues after that.
Good.
Clay shifts again.
More this time.
A faint tension in his shoulders.
A pull in his hand—
Still wrapped in mine.
I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it.
I don’t let go.
“Come on,” I murmur. “You’ve made it this far. Don’t stop now.”
His brow furrows.
Just slightly.
Like he’s trying to push through something.
Through the pain.
Through the dark.
“Clay.”
I lean closer.
Close enough that my voice doesn’t have to carry.
“You’re safe,” I tell him. “Do you hear me? You’re out. You made it.”
A breath.
Rough.
Uneven.
But real.
My chest tightens.
Relief hits—sharp and sudden—but I force it down.
Not yet.
Not until I know he’s fully—
His fingers tighten around mine.
Not a twitch.
Not a reflex.
A grip.
Weak.
But intentional.
My breath catches.
“Welcome back,” I whisper.
Something shifts in his expression.
Subtle.
But there.
His lips part slightly.
Like he’s trying to say something.
Nothing comes out.
Not yet.
“That’s okay,” I murmur. “You don’t have to talk. Just stay with me.”
His grip tightens again.
Stronger this time.
And something in my chest—
Something I’ve been holding back since the moment we got here—
Cracks.
Because this isn’t just relief.
This isn’t just professional.
This isn’t just—
I push the thought away.
Hard.
Now is not the time.
But it lingers anyway.
Right there under the surface.
“Doctor,” the medic says again, softer this time, “he’s stabilizing.”
I finally look up.
Just for a second.
Meeting his eyes.
Confirming it.
Seeing the numbers.
Seeing the shift.
He’s right.
Clay isn’t crashing.
Not anymore.
I exhale slowly.
First real breath I’ve taken since this started.
“Good,” I say quietly.
Then I look back down at Clay.
And don’t move.
Because I’m not done.
Not yet.
His eyes flicker.
Barely open.
Just enough to show a sliver of awareness.
Unfocused.
Clouded.
But there.
“Hannah…”
My name.
Rough.
Broken.
But unmistakable.
My heart stutters.
“You’re okay,” I say immediately. Steady. Certain. “You’re safe.”
His gaze shifts slightly.
Trying to find me.
I lean closer.
Right into his line of sight.
“I’ve got you,” I tell him.
Something in his expression eases.
Just a fraction.
But I see it.
Feel it.
His grip on my hand tightens again.
Then—just slightly—his thumb moves.
Brushing against my skin.
Not accidental.
Not random.
Intentional.
My breath catches.
Again.
“You should rest,” I say softly, even though I don’t move. Even though I don’t let go.
He doesn’t answer.
His eyes are already slipping closed again.
But this time—
It’s different.
Not fading.
Not falling.
Resting.
My shoulders finally loosen.
Just a little.
“He’s stable,” someone says behind me.
I nod once.
But I don’t step back.
Don’t release his hand.
Don’t break the connection.
Because for a moment—
Just one—
Everything else fades.
The war.
The pain.
The chaos.
All of it.
And it’s just this.
Him.
Here.
Alive.
And for reasons I’m not ready to examine—
That matters more than it should.
A lot more.