58. Hannah
Hannah
“You’re not sitting up.”
“I’m sitting up.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I already am.”
I stare at him.
He stares right back.
Stubborn.
Unmovable.
Infuriating.
And still pale as hell.
“You’re barely conscious,” I snap.
“I’m conscious enough.”
“You almost died.”
“I didn’t.”
That—
That right there—
I take a slow breath, forcing control back in before I say something I won’t take back.
“You’re not ready,” I say, quieter now. Controlled. “Your body hasn’t recovered. Your vitals are stable, not strong. There’s a difference.”
Clay leans back slightly against the pillows.
Too casually.
Like this is nothing.
Like this—what just happened—doesn’t matter.
“I’ve been worse,” he says.
Of course he has.
That doesn’t make this okay.
“That doesn’t mean you get to ignore it,” I fire back.
His eyes sharpen slightly.
There it is.
That edge.
“You planning to keep me in this bed?” he asks.
“If that’s what it takes.”
A beat.
Then—
A slow exhale from him.
Not angry.
Not yet.
But close.
“I don’t do well sitting still,” he mutters.
“I noticed.”
Silence stretches between us.
Tight.
Charged.
Because this isn’t just about him sitting up.
And we both know it.
“You stayed,” he says suddenly.
The words cut straight through everything.
I freeze for half a second.
Then recover.
“I had a job to do.”
It’s automatic.
Clinical.
Safe.
His gaze doesn’t shift.
Doesn’t soften.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.”
I look away first.
Because I’m not having this conversation.
Not now.
Not when—
“You should be resting,” I deflect.
“You should be too.”
“I’m not the one who almost died.”
His jaw tightens.
“Neither are you.”
That hits.
Harder than it should.
Because he’s right.
I shouldn’t even be standing here.
I shouldn’t have been able to push through that.
I shouldn’t—
“I’m fine,” I say.
The words come out too sharp.
Too fast.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Right,” he says quietly.
Not believing me.
Not even a little.
“Drop it,” I add.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
“That how this works with you?” he asks. “You tell everyone they’re not fine—but you are?”
My chest tightens.
Annoyance flares.
Hot and immediate.
“I’m not your patient,” I snap.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
Another beat.
Then—
“So stop acting like I’m yours.”
That—
That does it.
Something inside me snaps tight.
Because he doesn’t get it.
He doesn’t get what I saw.
What I felt when he collapsed.
When his pulse started dropping.
When I thought—
I push that thought away hard.
“You were on my table,” I say, my voice low now. Controlled—but barely. “You were bleeding internally. Your body was shutting down. So yeah—right now? You’re still my responsibility.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
Unyielding.
“Not for long.”
There it is.
The real problem.
“You’re already thinking about going back out there,” I say.
Not a question.
His silence answers me.
Of course he is.
Of course.
Anger flares again.
Sharp.
Protective.
“You’re not ready,” I repeat.
“I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not a plan—that’s denial.”
His jaw tightens.
“And what’s your plan?” he shoots back. “Keep me here until I forget how to do my job?”
“No,” I snap. “Keep you here until your body stops trying to kill you!”
The words hang between us.
Heavy.
Too real.
Too close.
For a second—
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
Because we both feel it.
That line we just crossed.
His expression shifts slightly.
Something quieter.
Something deeper.
“You worried about me, Doc?” he asks.
And that—
That is not fair.
Not even close.
I straighten slightly.
Rebuild the wall.
Fast.
“Don’t read into it,” I say coolly. “I don’t like losing patients.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
I know it the second it leaves my mouth.
Because something in his expression shuts down.
Not fully.
But enough.
“Right,” he says.
Flat.
Distant.
“Just another patient.”
Damn it.
That’s not—
I don’t—
He shifts slightly again, wincing this time.
Subtle.
But I see it.
Of course I do.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” I say automatically.
There it is again.
That instinct.
That pull.
That need to—
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You mentioned.”
Silence falls again.
But it’s different now.
Sharper.
Rougher.
Because we’ve both said things we can’t take back.
Not yet.
Not like this.
I turn slightly, reaching for the chart just to have something to do.
Something to focus on that isn’t—
Him.
“You’re stable,” I say, forcing my voice back into something neutral. Professional. “But you’re not cleared for anything. Not even close.”
“Noted.”
Flat again.
Distant.
I hate that.
More than I should.
More than makes sense.
I close the chart a little harder than necessary.
“Get some rest,” I say.
I start to step away—
“Hey.”
I pause.
Just for a second.
Then glance back.
His eyes are on me again.
Less guarded this time.
But still—
Careful.
“You didn’t leave,” he says. “You didn’t go back to America.”
Softer now.
Not pushing.
Not challenging.
Just… stating it.
My chest tightens.
Again.
I don’t answer right away.
Because I don’t have one that doesn’t mean something.
“That was my job,” I say finally.
But it doesn’t land the same this time.
He knows it.
I know it.
Neither of us calls it out.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
But this time—
He doesn’t sound convinced.
I turn before I say something else.
Before I step too far over a line I don’t fully understand yet.
Before this becomes something I can’t control.
But as I move toward the door—
I feel it.
His gaze on me.
Still there.
Still holding.
And somehow—
I know this isn’t over.
Not even close.