They lead me down a hallway that smells like bleach and fear.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
The nurse pauses at the door.
“He has a concussion and cracked ribs,” she says gently. “He tried to get out of bed.”
Yeah, that sounds like David.
She opens the door.
And there he is.
Pale.
Bandage wrapped around his head.
Bruising already darkening his jaw.
IV in his arm.
He looks—mortal.
And that almost breaks me.
“David?” My voice shatters.
He turns his head slowly.
His eyes find mine.
Alive. He’s alive.
I cross the room without thinking.
Careful of the wires.
Careful of the monitors.
But I cup his face like I need proof.
We embrace. We say things—so many things.
His fingers curl around my wrist like he needs to anchor himself.
I start crying again.
Because I know.
I know now that this is real.
And then he says it.
“I love you.”
He’s bruised but alive, and he looks terrified of losing me—which just makes me love him more.
So I say it back. Out loud.