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What followed was somewhat jumbled. Rowan had caught me when I collapsed, of course. This was a man waiting for a bullet to jump in front of whenever we were together.
But there was no bullet, so I could only imagine how helpless that man of mine felt when there was no one to protect me from.
There were a lot of blurry images after that, and I did remember yelling. Him yelling. At paramedics. Doctors.
I remembered the fear in his voice, the desperation mingling with the searing pain in my body. I’d wanted to open my arms, comfort him, tell him that I was going to be okay, that I was just imagining it. Except even I couldn’t imagine myself into that situation. Then there were a whole bunch of jumbled things: bright lights, foreign hands. And then there was nothing at all.
My room was small, private, with all the things you would expect from a hospital room. Monitors, IV bags. There was a man sitting in a chair pulled up as close as physically possible to my bed. His hand was grasping mine. His eyes were focused on me, sitting ramrod straight, face creased with worry.
“Thank fuck,” he hissed when he came into focus.
Rowan leaned forward, clasping my hand in both of his, pressing his forehead to it.
“You scared the absolute shit out of me, Nora.”
It surprised me, the fear on his face. Naked. All-encompassing.
He hadn’t hidden how much he cared about me in the time we’d been together. Not even a little.
But seeing it here, with him sitting next to me in a hospital bed was something else. There was no way to convince myself that I was imagining it, that he was only with me because he wanted sex or whatever. No... This man cared about me. Deeply.
“What happened?” My throat was scratchy and raw.
“Your appendix burst,” Rowan replied, letting go with one of his hands so he could lean over, pour water from a jug, and hold a small paper cup up to my mouth.
“Small sips,” he instructed.
I drank gratefully, the cool water sliding down my parched throat before hitting my uneasy stomach. When he put the water down, I processed what he’d said.
Obviously, I knew there was something wrong. You don’t wake up in a hospital because you’ve talked yourself into some kind of injury, but I also hadn’t been expecting that.
“My appendix burst?” I repeated, feeling a dull ache in my stomach after shifting slightly in the bed.
“Yeah,” Rowan gritted out. “Your appendix burst. And if I hadn’t been there, you might’ve passed out and died right there at the bakery.”
That thrust me into a sober kind of awareness. I thought I was dying of something weekly. Although that fear was a very real one, it had never been validated by anything. Death was just a concept to me, an instrument cooked up by an anxious mind.
But I’d never imagined it would brush so close.
I guessed no one did. Until it was too late.
“You almost fucking died,” Rowan grunted, obviously haunted by how close it was.
My death hadn’t just brushed this man. It had shaken up his insides.
“I didn’t die,” I told him in a whisper. “I’m right here.”
Rowan opened his mouth to say something else, but the doctor entered the room, giving me a respite while checking my vitals. Rowan’s fury didn’t dissipate; he sat there all brooding, but also listening intently to the doctor.
“The surgery went well,” she said, slanting a look at the chart then to me. She was only slightly older than me with kind eyes. “Since your appendix burst, we had to do a lot of work cleansing out the infection. We’ll need you in the hospital for at least three days, maybe five, to monitor you.”
“I cannot be here for three days,” I argued with her, trying to push myself up in bed. “I have a business to run.”
“You’re stayin’ here if I have to chain you to the fucking bed,” Rowan exclaimed, his unyielding hands on mine.
“Though the hospital cannot condone that behavior, I agree with his sentiment,” the doctor smiled. “A regular appendectomy is still surgery, therefore serious but nowhere near as invasive as what we had to do to you. We need to monitor you to ensure you can digest food and that your intestines are working as normal before I can discharge you. Even then, I’m going to need you to take it very easy for a few weeks. No strenuous activity for about a month.”
I gaped at the woman. Days in this hospital bed? Weeks of recovery? I shook my head. “But I have a business, employees… You’re telling me I can’t work for weeks? That just won’t do.”
She gave me a sympathetic look. “Depending on your recovery… yes. But once you’ve healed some more, I might be able to clear you for short periods of work. Right now, you just need to focus on getting well.”
