I caught his right hand before he could strike the rail.
“Listen to me. You’re in the hospital.”
His fingers locked around mine with startling strength.
“Wake up, sweetheart.”
The name escaped before I could stop it.
Noah’s eye flew open.
He looked straight through me.
Fear hollowed his face.
For one terrible second, he seemed to be somewhere else entirely.
Then awareness crashed into pain.
He sucked in a breath and curled as far as his injuries allowed.
“Easy.” I touched his shoulder, not his face. “You’re safe. Nothing is happening to you.”
His eye squeezed shut.
“God.”
“I know.”
His grip remained brutal around my fingers.
I did not ask him to release me.
I waited while his breathing slowed by fractions.
The room returned around us: muted daylight, the soft pulse of machines, the rattle of a cart moving somewhere beyond the door.
Noah swallowed.
“Was I yelling?”
“No.”
“What did I say?”
“I couldn’t make it out.”
His eye stayed closed. “Good.”
“Do you want the nurse?”
“No.”
“Water?”
He shook his head.
Another tremor moved through him.
