Page 88 of Priest

For a long second, all he does is stare. “Lila?”

The name scrapes out of him, raw and unguarded. Like a prayer sent as a question.

Her throat tightens. “Yeah.”

His chest rises sharply, heart rate ticking up again. “You’re…” He swallows. “You’re here?”

The words carry no relief yet. Just disbelief. Like his mind is offering him something it has spent years teaching itself to live without.

“I thought—” He stops, breath hitching. Tries again. “Thought I was dreamin’ your voice.”

The words come out clumsy, like whatever filters he learned to build didn’t wake up with him.

“I’m here,” she says. Just that. Nothing more.

His gaze drifts, slow and disoriented, finally registering the room, the machines, the IV lines.

Then me.

Recognition comes late. “Priest,” he croaks.

“Hey, brother,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as something tight eases in my chest. “You scared the hell outta us.”

He exhales weakly. “Figures.”

Lila glances at the monitors, then back to him. “You’re stable. Out of immediate danger. Doctors’ll be in soon.”

He nods faintly, eyes already pulling back to her like they don’t know how to stay anywhere else. “Been…” He pauses, breath shallow. “Been here long?”

She hesitates. Just a beat. “Yeah.”

He lets out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly before opening again. “How…” He swallows, “How long?”

She shifts her weight. “About two weeks. You scared everyone.”

A faint quirk touches his mouth. “I have a way of doing that.”

Silence stretches, filled by machines, old grief, and the kind of history a man carries even when he’s too weak to hold a full conversation. He studies her then, really looks, and something tightens in his face.

“You look…” He trails off. Swallows. “Tired.”

She shrugs lightly. “Hospital vigils do that.”

Another pause settles between them.

“Never imagined I’d ever get to wake up,” he murmurs. “To your pretty face.”

She watches him carefully.

“Seein’ you’s…” He exhales. “Unexpected.”

Her jaw tightens. “Yeah, same.”

The moment sits between them, unfinished and unclaimed. His fingers flex weakly against the sheet, like he’s stopping himself from reaching.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, it’s gentle but firm. “Don’t.”