“Yeah.”
“Your shoulder?—”
“Don’t care.”
“You can barely stand?—”
“Not gonna stop me.”
She kissed him. Soft at first, then sure, her hands sliding up to anchor him there—proof he was real. He tasted salt from her tears and, for the first time in days, the world stopped tilting. His good arm locked around her waist, pulling her close enough that he could feel her heartbeat against his chest, and he poured everything he’d been too scared to say into the kiss.
A pointed throat-clear broke the moment.
“All right, lovebirds.” Caleb motioned for Ryder to sit. “Beautiful scene, very moving. But your gown’s losing the battle, and the nurses are getting an eyeful, so maybe let’s park the romance before HR gets involved?”
Ivy laughed through the tears still wet on her face. Ryder looked down at her—at this woman who’d survivedeverythingand still had the heart to love him back. Something brittle and unyielding finally loosened in his chest. “You’re staying?”
“I’m staying.” She kissed him again, soft and certain. “For you. For Ellie. For us.”
“Good,” Ryder murmured. “Because I really need to sit down.”
Caleb caught him as his knees buckled, guiding him back into the wheelchair. Ivy’s hand stayed on his good shoulder the whole way down.
“You’re crazy.” She bent and nuzzled his jaw, and he breathed her perfume in.
“Probably.”
“You could have torn your stitches.”
“Totally worth it.” He threaded his fingers through the softness of her hair.
“That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Caleb sighed. “Also the most disturbing, because—your ass. I’m never un-seeing that. But mostly romantic.”
Ryder lifted his good hand and flipped him off.
Ivy’s laugh spilled out, bright and uncontrollable.
And for the first time in days, Ryder laughed too.
41
Ryder woketo the sound of breathing that wasn’t his own.
The room was still dark. Pre-dawn light filtered through the curtains, turning everything muted and soft. The rhythm was slow, peaceful. Different from Ellie’s small quick breaths through the monitor on his nightstand.
Ivy.
Her hair fanned across his pillow, a spill of pale gold against white cotton. One hand rested on his chest, fingers curled loosely against his heartbeat. He’d forgotten how it felt to wake without bracing for impact. Just breath and warmth and her.
Three weeks since that hospital corridor, and he still woke sometimes half-expecting the bed to be empty.
It never was.
His shoulder ached. A dull throb that started deep in the joint and radiated down his arm. The sling sat on the chair beside the bed where he’d dropped it before sleep. He’d need to put it back on soon. PT appointment this afternoon. Six more weeks minimum before he’d be cleared for light duty.
He had no regrets.
Every torn muscle, every sleepless night—had brought him this.
