3. Yvette

Chapter 3

Yvette

Waking up in a hospital room feels like someone hit the pause button on my life. Pulses of light thrum softly against my closed eyelids, and I'm suddenly hyper-aware of an antiseptic smell that clings to the air.

My head swims as memories of disjointed scenes of my poor mangled red car, screeching metal, and a black SUV with a very pissed-off driver, all flash through my muddled brain.

Then my mind snags on one particular detail, a hunky fireman whose grip on my hand was the only thing anchoring me amid the chaos. It hardly seems real now, more a figment conjured in the midst of fear and adrenaline.

But when I blink my eyes open, the muted hues of the hospital room swirl into focus, and I'm relieved to find I'm pretty much still in one piece. To my left, the soft murmur of familiar voices reaches me.

Turning my head slowly, I see Romi and her husband, Sullivan, nestled in uncomfortable looking chairs. They're whispering to each other, likely arguing over who gets to obsess over my health more. Romi, with her long black hair tied hastily in a bun, clasps her hands together anxiously, while Sullivan rests an arm around her shoulders in a subtle sign of support.

As I watch them without actually announcing my return to the world of the living, their voices mingle into some sort of ambient background noise.

Deciding to explore the rest of my surroundings, I shift my gaze lazily to the right. My train of thought derails when I spot him, the fireman, and the world comes sharply into focus. I blink, half-convinced this particular reality was somehow transposed from my imagination.

He's sitting beside my hospital bed like he belongs there. Dark brown hair, tousled and adorably disheveled, crowns an obscenely handsome face. Dark eyes that seem capable of reading minds beneath a serious brow, a square jaw dusted with a day's worth of stubble. And the muscles… holy cow, his muscles. He's like a living Michelangelo sculpture, only with clothes on.

Before I can stop myself, the word "Adonis" flits through my mind. The amusing thought coaxes a smile from me.

He notices me stirring and his gaze meets mine. A spark of recognition flares in his eyes, the kind that makes the imaginary fireman suddenly, wrenchingly real. He shifts a bit, leaning forward as if to confirm that I'm really, truly awake, and there's more than just polite concern painting his expression.

"Hey, knockout," he greets softly, his voice a low rumble that somehow soothes the sharp edges of my consciousness. "Welcome back."

I attempt a verbal response, something witty or charming or, honestly, anything more coherent than a raspy grunt. But that's exactly what leaves my mouth. The dry, gravelly murmur barely qualifies as a sound.

"Water," he offers, reaching for a cup like he's done this a million times. I attempt a nod, which sends shards of pain tearing through my head. I wince as he lifts the cup to my lips with care, and I sip the cool liquid gratefully, feeling it soothe and restore my vocal abilities.

Once I'm fractionally less croaky, I manage, "You're… you're real?"

He grins, and it's the sort of grin that could probably light up an entire hospital, never mind a single room. "Last time I checked. I'm Banks, by the way."

"Banks," I repeat, rolling his name over my tongue like it might hold hidden secrets or some kind of magic. And maybe it does because there's something undeniably mesmerizing about this man.

As I study him, trying to piece together how this fits in the grand tapestry of ‘Today In Yvette's Crazy Life,' I notice Romi's attention swivel toward us. She lifts a surprised and curious brow, the unspoken question visible in the tilt of her head. "Thank God, you're awake! How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck, literally," I reply dryly, gathering my wit like a frayed yarn ball.

Sullivan offers a sympathetic wince-turned-smile. "We came as soon as we heard. You gave us all quite the scare."

I muster a reassuring look, though I'm not fooling anyone entirely. "I'm fine. Or, at least, I will be. Thanks for being here."

As Romi reshuffles the blanket over me with sisterly fuss, I glance back at Banks, feeling an inexplicable pull. "Thank you for… everything," I tell him, sincere but still bewildered by what ‘everything' actually means.

He shakes his head, dismissing the thanks casually. "It's nothing, really. I'm going to take care of you, knockout."

And somehow, through a tangled mess of IV lines and unfamiliar medical decor, through pain meds and residual shock, warmth blossoms. A sense of rightness I can't explain. And I'm not going to even try.

The beeping machines and clinical setting fade into a distant buzz.

When Sullivan insists on getting a coffee and drags an unwilling Banks with him, my sister moves closer to my side. "So," she says brightly, shaking me from my musings as if declaring today's main event has come to light. "How exactly did you meet Mr. Arm Candy over there?"

I snort, biting back a grin. "Just lucky I guess."

I'm gradually falling back into rhythm, and I'm grateful for the dull thrum of normalcy following the accident. I look over to see Banks and Sullivan returning from their coffee expedition, steaming cups firmly in hand. The duo looks almost conspiratorial, like they've just come back from plotting something nefarious or discussing the secrets of the universe over lattes.

I watch them saunter in with an ease that speaks volumes of an unspoken understanding. Sullivan gives me a small salute with his coffee cup, and Banks offers his disarming smile, and I realize I'm becoming addicted to it.

"Hope you didn't miss us too much," Sullivan quips, handing a cup to Romi before crossing back to his chair. Romi opts for a half-squint at her husband, playfully suspicious.

"Only a little," I reply, technically lying but unwilling to analyze this sudden desire to have Banks at my side twenty-four-seven.

Banks settles himself down in the chair beside my bed, displaying a kind of stubborn grace. There's this steely refusal to leave my side, which throws me for a loop. The gesture is equal parts confusing and comforting. I'd imagine most adrenaline-fueled heroes bolt after their rescue shifts end, but not Banks. He seems steadfastly rooted at my side.

Romi and Sullivan eventually stand to leave, pledging their return after a necessary son-related pit stop. "Gotta feed the munchkin," Romi says, kissing my cheek before she motions toward Banks. "Call me if you need anything."

"I'll take care of whatever she needs," Banks reassures my sister.

With a wave and another hard glance at Banks, my sister and brother-in-law make their way out.

Silence fills the room, cozy and comfortable. Banks sips his coffee, looking over at me thoughtfully. It's nice, somehow, having him here. There's a soothing solidness to his presence. "You really don't have to babysit me," I remark, unable to completely hide the quizzical note in my voice.

"I know," he says, simple as that, and it's weirdly comforting knowing he's staying by choice. "I want to be here with you, knockout. Nothing could get me to leave."

I don't really have a response to his declaration, so I keep quiet and enjoy my hot latte.

The hours slip by in a mostly pleasurable haze broken by routine prods from nurses and episodes of a television drama playing softly in the background.

Eventually, I drift off to sleep with Banks still sitting in the chair next to my bed.

When Romi returns the next morning, she's armed with large take-out cups of coffee.

"You two looked like you could use a pick-me-up," she declares, handing a cup to Banks with an all-too-innocent smile before holding one out to me.

"Thank you." I grab the cup and take a big sip. "Hospital coffee leaves a lot to be desired."

I'm just about to make a half-hearted complaint about the lack of decent TV channels when there's a firm knock on the door. Banks glances over at me and makes sure I'm covered before calling out, "Come in."

The door opens to reveal a deputy in uniform, who looks like he's been up far too long wrestling with paperwork and caffeine. He gives a polite nod at me and then focuses on Banks, summoning him to the hallway with an urgent, "Can I have a word with you?"

As Banks gets up, curiosity bubbles up, mingled with a touch of anxiety. I strain to catch snippets of their conversation, half-heard through the doorframe. Their voices rise and fall, not quite an argument but steeped in enough intensity to suggest tension. I catch Banks's steadfast, insistent voice, and my pulse quickens.

He comes back, the deputy trailing behind with a clipboard in hand, which can only mean one thing; it's time to deal with the legalities of the accident.

"Yvette," Banks begins, re-settling into the chair next to me, his expression mingling gentle concern with grim resolution, "you're going to need to give a statement. They can't hold Richard Hecken without it."

My stomach twists at the name, memories I'd prefer stayed buried bubbling unbidden to the surface. Richard Hecken. The last person I expected to cross paths with in Silver Spoon Falls. Suddenly, those days at my old firm in Houston, with Richard's relentless presence making work life unbearable, are fresh and raw again in my mind.

Still, I nod, knowing it's the right thing to do. Necessary, even, not just for justice, but for closure and for putting the past behind me once and for all. Banks watches me with a kind of steady reassurance, affirming silently I'm not facing this alone.

The deputy positions himself, pen poised above a sheet of paper attached to his clipboard, his demeanor shifting from official to respectfully attentive as he asks, "You made a statement in the ambulance accusing Richard Hecken of purposely running you off the road." I nod my head and he adds, "Can you please explain the situation to me?"

I take a deep breath, steadying myself and letting the words spill like a recounted litany. "I haven't seen Richard in over a year," I start, recollecting timelines and detailing the decision to leave my firm back in Houston. "Around that time, I realized staying there would mean continuously dealing with his harassment. It was affecting my work and my peace of mind."

The deputy nods as he jots this down, though his presence doesn't stifle the gentle resolve I feel as Banks remains beside me, lending silent support.

After a pause, I continue, "He made my life difficult, refusing to respect boundaries or professionalism. I figured leaving, starting fresh by opening my own firm here in Silver Spoon Falls, would put enough distance between us."

I recount each particular issue and the frustration of navigating an environment fraught with unwanted advances and workplace politics. It's liberating, in a strange way, to have it laid out, no longer a tangled mess but a thread unraveled into coherence. Up until now, I felt embarrassed by my inability to handle the situation without running away, but Banks' support has changed my outlook.

As I finish, the deputy thanks me and reassures me my statement should help keep Richard from causing further disruption. Now, he'll have to face the consequences of his reckless actions.

He leaves after a few more logistical questions, the door clicking shut, ushering back a semblance of quiet into the room. I exhale, tension sliding away slowly, making space for a lighter, more hopeful emotion as I turn my attention back to Banks.

"Thank you," I tell him quietly, meaning so much more than the surface-level politeness of those words. I'm not sure what's happening to me, but I'm pretty sure he's well on his way to stealing my freaking heart.