Page 155 of Hawthorne

Vincent is alive. He woke up.

The walk to his bedroom is technically short, but inside my brain, it feels like a thousand miles away. I have to stop nearly every second to wait for the nurse, who is supposed to show me the way.

She walks so bloody slow.

Maybe it’s because all these hours have been agonising. Imagine all of the worst scenarios, where he dies, and I am left in this world with nothing but a stupid Crown.

The notion of having all of this. Having all of it but not having him in this world sounds ridiculous. One thing was having him alive and safe, even if we no longer meant anything to each other, but ruling a country at the expense of his blood.

Just...no.

“Here.” The nurse stops in front of a white door. “He’s still slightly out of it. It’s barely been twenty-four hours since the surgery.”

That long?

“He is not supposed to have visitors yet, but this a…special occasion.”

I nod, knowing what she means.

My right hand holds the door handle, trembling as it twists. The soft click of the lock sounds, and the inside comes into view. The white room is bare and cold, stripped down from any and every kind of personality. The only things adorning it are a bed, a big chair, and the machines attached to him.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It reverberates around the four walls surrounding us. It’s loud but rhythmical and stable. I have never enjoyed listening to this kind of annoying sound so much before. It indicates life—his life.

Everything else feels so insignificant right now.

The sounds, the sight. It feels like a punch to the throat as a sob clogs it up. My eyes feel like they’re on fire with the tears that blur my sight. My feet take me to him, and from up close, it takes everything in me not to break down.

His skin is pale, contrasting with the dark brown hues of his hair and the light stubble appearing on his face. It only makes the gaping hole in my chest grow.

“Love.” A struggling and raspy whisper catches my attention, making my head snap up.

More tears flow down my cheeks when my eyes lock with his. Even with all the pain he is struggling with, he is forcing himself awake.

“Don’t tire yourself out,” I plead. “Rest.”

“You’re here.”

Not a question, but I answer it nonetheless, “I am.”

He hums when his eyes roll back. It’s only for a moment until he opens them again, looking at me.So stubborn.

“Get some sleep,” I order.

Instead of obeying, he keeps watching me intently. I notice a slight move from underneath and see movement from under the covers.

It stops when he grunts in pain, and I can’t help but grab his hand, keeping it locked in place.

“Stop moving,” I hiss.

“Am I dreaming?” His eyes roll back once again. This time, they stay shut as he mutters, “Tell me it’s true.”

“I am here, Vincent. I amhere,”I assure him. “Get some sleep, please. You’ve been through a lot.”

“We need to talk.”

We do.

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