When Ella woke again, the lights were dimmer. The sharp, sterile brightness of the ER was gone, replaced by soft lamplight and shadows stretched long against the private suite's walls.
Nicholas was still there.
She wasn't sure he'd moved at all.
His chair was pulled close to the bed, one of his hands resting loosely in hers, his other elbow propped on the mattress, his fingers threaded into his own hair as if trying to keep himself anchored. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin, his jaw slack with exhaustion. But his hand on hers remained steady, like part of him refused to fall asleep completely.
Ella blinked, her throat dry.
"Nicholas," she whispered.
His eyes snapped open immediately. There was no disorientation, no moment of groggy confusion—just sharp, instant awareness. His gaze locked onto her like she was the only thing in the world.
"Hey, baby." His voice was soft, hoarse. "I'm right here."
Her lips curved weakly. "You're still here?"
