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I could be missing him. I could have lost him. Tears prick my eyes again.
He stirs when I place my hand over his. I lean closer, holding my breath as I anxiously watch for any sign he might be waking. I need him to wake up. I need to know he’s still my Timothy.
His hand captures mine, squeezing weakly as his brown eyes flutter open, slowly focusing on me. They’re hazy with sleep and drugs, but when they meet mine, they go impossibly warm. “Mina.” His voice is rough, barely a whisper. Weak.
My voice cracks in half and I rub at my eyes with my free hand. “You asshole.”
The corner of his mouth turns up like he’s caught me. I’m pinned open. He can see right through to my heart.
He wets his lips, his eyes fluttering closed again. “Marry me.”
Chapter seven
Timothy
“Marryme.”
My head hurts, but the pain feels distant like I’m touching it through a wall, so I don’t really care. I breathe in the faint scent of Mina’s jasmine perfume. I’m in a hospital and I’m hurt, but she’s holding my hand and I’m not scared anymore. I love her and I’m done wasting time.
My throat is parched, but I ask again. “Marry me.”
“Timothy.” Her voice is soft anguish and I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no.
Please be a yes.
Dark brown eyes glare back at me, framed with thick black lashes and the prettiest face to ever scowl at me. So it’s not a yes. Not yet.
“Why does everyone think we’re married?” she asks the ceiling, her voice thick with frustration.
It’s too hard to explain now and I need to make her smile.
“Mina…” My throat is dry and sore as hell. I swallow before I try again.
She reaches for something out of my field of vision, but whatever she’s doing brings her closer to me. I breathe in her scent and goddamn, I want to hold her right now.
Well, I want her to hold me. I’m not sure I can move yet, even to wrap my arms around her. My entire body feels impossibly heavy.
She holds a straw to my lips. I greedily pull a sip. The cool water soothes my throat and I continue to sip slowly. I can keep her this close forever if I sip as slowly as possible. It’s science.
Mina proves this to be untrue when she deems I’ve had enough and pulls the straw from my lips, setting the water down.
I shift, but I can’t move my neck. Panic, dulled by the drugs, hits. A neck brace. Shit. “Did I break my neck?”
“Nope. Your brain. Or that thing passing as your brain.”
Oh, thank god. I manage a weak grin. “RIP my cock. Why the neck brace?”
She’s holding herself so tense a stiff breeze would shatter her.
“Because,” she grits out, “they don’t have a Cone of Shame big enough at the nearest veterinary clinic to fit over your thick neck.”
Oh, she is pissed. She loves me and she’s scared. Maybe I should be, too, but I’m not. “What happened?” I don’t remember, so it must be bad.
“You hit your head and bled into your brain—you could’ve died!”
Oh.
That’s…not great.
