I suck in a breath, ragged and shallow, my body tensing instinctively, bracing for an impact that isn’t coming.
I shift slightly, the ache in my ribs reminding me of every bruise, every hit, every moment I thought I wouldn’t survive. My head turns, my gaze dragging toward the chair beside me.
And there he is. Hopper.
He’s slumped forward, his large frame crammed awkwardly into the too-small chair, his arms folded on the edge of the bed, his face buried in them. His breathing is slow and even, but there’s nothing peaceful about it.
Because even in sleep, his hand grips mine. Like he’s afraid to let go. Like he won’t let go—not even now.
The sight of him sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing through me. Tears sting my eyes, hot and unwelcome, and a knot forms in my throat so tight I can barely swallow. I stare at him—at the roughness of his jaw, the stubble that shadows his face, the tension carved into every line of his shoulders, his hands, his entire body.
He looks wrecked.
And yet, he stayed right next to me.
I try to squeeze his hand, but my fingers feel like they’re weighed down by sand, sluggish from the IV taped to my wrist. The motion must be enough, though, because Hopper stirs.
His head lifts slowly, like he’s dragging himself out of a fog. His blue eyes find mine, and the second they do, everything in him changes.
They go wide—relief crashing through the exhaustion clouding his features.
“Nysa.”
The way he says my name—it’s hoarse, raw, like he’s torn it from somewhere deep inside him.
Like it’s a prayer. A plea. A promise.
I try to smile, but my lips tremble. “You stayed.”
His hand tightens around mine, just enough to remind me I’m here, that this is real. “Of course I stayed,” he says, his voice breaking around the words. “Where else would I be?”
I blink against the blur of tears stinging my eyes. “I don’t know . . . I mean, I almost . . .” My voice falters, cracking beneath the weight of everything I can’t say, the emotions crashing over me, pulling me under.
Hopper leans in, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from my face, his touch achingly careful. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t think about that. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all that matters now.”
But I see it—the way his jaw flexes, the fire simmering just beneath his quiet, controlled exterior.
“Hopper,” I whisper, my voice unsteady.
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “We got them,” he says, his voice low and certain. “Most of them. But Mal . . . he’s fucking pissed. This whole thing, the way it played out—we don’t know what we just woke up. It doesn’t matter, though. We have you back. I have you with me.”
The tears spill over, hot streaks down my cheeks, and I don’t try to stop them.
“Thank you,” I choke out.
His hand moves to my face now, his thumb sweeping a tear away. His blue eyes soften, and for a moment, that protective fire melts into something deeper, something that makes my chest ache in an entirely different way.
“You don’t thank me for this,” he murmurs, his voice rough but sure. “You don’t thank someone for loving you.”
The lump in my throat cracks open, and suddenly, I can’t hold it in anymore.
I almost break right then and there.
I barely get a breath in before he’s at my side, his grip firm, his body close. Silence falls between us, thick with everything we haven’t said yet. All the fear. All the pain. All the what-ifs. And suddenly, I need to say something. Because if I don’t, I’ll drown in this moment.
“I thought I was going to die,” I whisper, my voice barely recognizable.
Hopper’s whole body stiffens, his jaw locking so tight I can hear his teeth grind.
