The door creaks open, and a man steps inside.
Something about him feels off. Not in a way that makes me think he’ll hurt me—nothing that obvious. It’s deeper than that. He moves with a kind of self-assuredness that feels out of place here, his steps deliberate, his gaze too sharp, too knowing. It’s like he’s holding back, like there’s something just beneath the surface he doesn’t want me to see.
His eyes scan the room, then land on me. He doesn’t smile. He just stands there, looking at me like he already knows who I am, like he’s sizing me up before deciding what to do next.
It presses down on me, thicker than before. This is no better than the hospital. At least there, I knew what was happening—or at least what was supposed to happen. Here? Here, I’m stuck, waiting in a place I don’t recognize, with people I don’t remember, hoping my parents show up soon and fix this.
Because if they don’t?
I’m not sure how much longer I can take this.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Haydn
I leave the room,glancing back just once to see her settle deeper into the bed, her body curling into the space we used to share. The ache in my chest twists sharper, relentless, but I force myself to turn away. I can’t stay. Not like this. Not with everything between us unraveling, fraying at the edges.
Instead of heading to my own room, my feet carry me down the hall, stopping outside one of the guest rooms.
Keane Stone’s room.
The door is slightly ajar, and I hesitate, my hand hovering above the knob. For a moment, I consider turning back, but then I push it open.
The space feels more like a private clinic than a bedroom, meticulously arranged with state-of-the-art equipment. Lang must have insisted on this setup. In one corner, a sleek adjustable chair sits next to a compact treadmill, the kind meant for rehab. Resistance bands dangle from hooks on the wall, like strange, lifeless ornaments. A table holds neatly stacked medical supplies and folders, each item placed with precision. It’s a space carefully curated for recovery, practically shouting,you’ll get better. Even if the person it’s for doesn’t believe it yet.
He doesn’t want Keane to invade my working space. My gym is sacred and so are the other rooms. This room is big enough to accommodate all this and yet I feel like I’m being selfish by not sharing. Then again, I’m letting him have her. That’s the most selfless act I can think of, isn’t it?
I discussed it with my therapist during the flight back home. I could’ve easily set a boundary, but instead I’m here supporting her. Sure, I paused our relationship, but I think it is the smart thing to do. If she catches feelings for him she won’t feel guilty about it. Guilt is the one thing that makes her anxious the most. Stop thinking about all the scenarios, I tell myself while I continue inspecting the bedroom.
Lang assured me the recovery team was top tier. Physical therapists, speech therapists, neurologists—all part of some high-end practice his cousin owns that specializes in cases like Keane’s. Everything about this room reflects Lang’s meticulousness, his obsession with control.
Keane is lying on the bed, his body still but far from relaxed, sinking into the mattress like he’s bracing for something. His gaze shifts toward me as I step inside, his eyes following my movements with a mix of wariness and confusion, like he’s trying to figure out who I am and why I’m here.
“Hey, I thought I’d introduce myself,” I say quietly, keeping my voice low. The faint hum of the equipment fills the silence, punctuated only by the soft sound of his breathing. “I’m Haydn Wesford.”
He doesn’t respond, not at first. His expression doesn’t change, but his fingers twitch against the blanket, the smallest of movements, as if he’s debating whether to acknowledge me—or ignore me entirely.
I shift awkwardly, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words, though I’m not even sure what I want to say. “You probably don’t know who I am,” I continue, my voice faltering slightly. “But I know a bit about you. More than a bit, actually.”
His brows knit together, and frustration flashes across his face. I can feel it rolling off him—the confusion, the helplessness, the simmering anger. And honestly? I don’t blame him. If I woke up to find my entire world turned upside down, my memories shattered into pieces I couldn’t put back together, I’d feel the same.
“I’m Ophelia’s . . .” I pause, my throat tightening. The words feel heavier than I expected. “Friend,” I manage finally, though the word feels inadequate.
I swallow hard, glancing away before meeting his gaze again. “That sounds so pathetic, doesn’t it? We’re nowjust friends,” I add, softer this time. “Even when she’s everything to me.”
His eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of something—recognition? Irritation? Maybe both.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, my voice steadier now. “At least not to you. I’ve known about you for a long time. And I’m not talking about your famous family or your songs. Nope. You and . . . her. Sometimes I even feared your memory. And now that you’re here . . .”
I let out a laugh, sudden and sharp, breaking the tension like a match struck too close to the flame. “I’m not here to get in your way or make things harder. That’s not what this is about.” I hesitate, my words teetering on the edge of vulnerability. “But I’m not leaving, either. You’re here because of her. Because she cares. And I’m here because I care about her, too. I need to make sure she’s okay while she’s helping you.”
Keane doesn’t move, but there’s something in his gaze—sharp, focused, like he’s trying to process my words, slotting them into the fractured pieces of memory he’s clinging to.
“I just wanted to introduce myself,” I say finally, softening my voice. “Because whether we like it or not, we’re all in this together now.”
Fuck I sound repetitive but I just don’t know if he understands me. I mean he’s unresponsive. But then I see it, just a flicker, his hand twitches on the blanket, a faint, involuntary reaction.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
