I don’t care about the doctor.
Don’t care about the machines.
Don’t care about the pain in my ribs.
All I care about—is her.
“I love you,” I say, voice cracked and brutal and real.
No music.
No stage.
No audience.
Just truth.
Her breath catches like I hit her.
Like she wasn’t expecting it.
Like she’s been waiting for it.
The monitor next to me starts beeping faster.
Someone mutters something about heart rate.
I don’t care.
“You hear me, Sunshine? I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you.”
Her hands slide into my hair carefully, mindful of the bandage wrapped around my head.
“You better be,” she whispers, tears falling harder now. “Because I love you too.”
And fuck.
That’s it.
That’s the moment.
The storm.
The crash.
The fear.
It all condenses into this single, unbearable clarity—I’m not invincible. I’m not untouchable.
And I almost lost the only thing that actually matters.
I pull her closer. Ignoring the sharp protest in my ribs.
Bury my face in her neck.
Inhale her.
Books and sunshine and her.