Chapter Fifteen

Zoe

T he sharp throb of my temple tells me I'm alive.

Death cannot be so painful.

Consciousness creeps up on me like a rising tide. Wave after wave, conquering further and further on the sand. Slowly, steadily, until the ocean reclaims what it owns, what it's owed, and my mind is back in my body.

Bright lights overhead are blinding, hurting my eyes that feel unusually sensitive. They refuse to fully open yet, but the warmth on my hand is familiar. The grip tightens as I draw a long breath, grounding me, slowly chasing away the pricks of numbness in my limbs.

My name is a reluctant whisper, like he fears the mere sound will hurt me or send me back into unconsciousness.

"Zoe? Love?" The endearment is so tender with concern it almost feels like a sucker punch to my aching gut.

Something tickles my nostrils, and my nose scrunches. Miles readjusts the oxygen cannula, letting his knuckle stroke my cheek as he withdraws.

"Hi," I try to say. It's barely a croak, alien to my own ears .

He doesn't reply, doesn't move, doesn't exhale for a long minute, as though he doesn't quite believe my eyelids have unglued, or that my lips are moving.

After one thousand blinks, the blur clears completely from my eyes. I focus on him, a small smile inadvertently tilting my face when his features soften. The sigh that follows is bigger than him, reverberating against the bare walls of the room.

One thousand swallows are needed, too, to clear the soreness from my throat.

"What—Who—" I pause to drop my voice to an ominous tone. "Who are you?"

"Zoe, I—" His throat works at great cost, his face pale like the swallow drained all color. "It's me. Miles. I—"

Something is very wrong with me. I don't know what possesses me to consider this a good time to mess with him, but I can't stop myself.

My head seems to have taken a hit—a strong one, by the feel of it—but not hard enough to make me forget all the times he's messed with me. I'm a firm believer of reciprocity, I won't squander an opportunity to even the scales.

"Oh. Didn't recognize you without the obnoxious smile. My bad."

The deep lines between his pinched eyes inform me he doesn't find my little prank amusing, but relief is what filters through his curse. "Goddamn, Zoe. Not funny!"

A burst of laughter escapes me. Unfortunately, karma is a bigger bitch than I am.

"Ow-ow-oww!" I whine, hands flying to my skull to recognize a bandage on my temple. "My head."

Then, a sharp sting brings my attention to my hand. I wince, noticing the IV that clasps the back of my hand. It feels like the ceilings crashed, my house of cards collapsing. Everything hurts, from my head to my ass.

Miles looks lost, on his feet in an instant, bending to inspect me but thinking better of it and rushing for the exit instead. "I'm gonna get the doctor, love. Don't move."

I have to laugh again, this time containing myself. How can I move when I'm tangled in a web of cables and wires, connecting me to a couple of medical monitors and IV fluid bags? Not to mention all the sore spots in my body, and the numbness that renders my limbs useless.

How long have I been lying in a hospital bed?

I plaster my polite smile when Dr. Louisa Chen, as per her lab coat, enters the room scarce minutes later, followed by a nurse with a friendly—albeit—tired face and a very swollen pregnant tummy under blue scrubs.

"Good to see you awake, honey," Nurse Jada introduces herself. "Prince Charming over there was losing his mind thinking he lost his miraculous healing powers. Looking at your eyes now, I understand why he was so desperate to see them open."

Unsure how to respond to her humor, I focus on her working hands.

The doctor conducts a series of neurological exams as she questions me. What day is today (Monday), who's the President (a war criminal). Her professional inflection makes me feel like I'm taking a test, and the thought of not acing it bothers me too much for someone who lies in a hospital bed after getting knocked out by a gun girl.

When I complain about the incessant throb in my skull, Nurse Jada adjusts the drip of the IV bag, announcing with a wink that she's my go-to girl for giving me the goods .

I let my gaze explore the room as they continue their work. It resembles any regular room I've seen in movies—which is in tune with how the whole situation feels.

Surreal.

Behind me, walls are decorated with medical equipment. On each side, there are windows. On the left, the blinds obstruct the hospital corridor. On the right, Boston lives on as if nothing is wrong. As if my life hadn't tiptoed the finest line.

I don't know I'm searching for something until it lands on Miles.

Somber, he stands outside the room, phone to an ear, gray eyes glued to me, following Dr. Chen's every minimal movement like a hawk. Once she's satisfied with my performance on her thorough examinations, she types her notes as she informs me of my status.

I suffered a traumatic injury, five surgical sutures required to close the face laceration to the corner above my left eyebrow. The scans performed while I was unconscious showed no signals of damage to brain tissue.

I don't think I'd grasped the severity of the situation until the term brain damage entered the conversation.

In the end, blood loss was the major concern, the hemorrhage from the cut uncommonly profuse—all under control now. Still, Dr. Chen isn't ready to sign my discharge, deciding to keep me for a period of observation overnight to monitor any new symptoms—a mere precautionary measure, she assures, since she doesn't anticipate complications.

She'll be hearing no argument from me in that department. I'm not aching to go home anyway—I doubt I'll be for a while .

She leaves with strict recommendations for rest, no white screens, or efforts, or big emotions.

Alone again, Miles makes his way to the same navy leather armchair, eyes on me as his hand searches for mine. They become as one when his fingers entwine with mine of their own volition, as though they've done this dance hundreds of times before.

"I called Toby. I know you wouldn't want to worry him, but he had to know. Your mother, too. They're on their way."

I keep my gaze at where we're linked, as I nod with gratitude in the semblance of a smile. With his free hand, he painstakingly tucks a rogue curl behind my ear, careful of the bandage.

"Who did this, Zoe?" Pain filters through the rough cracks of his voice, like he's cracking in half too. My heart does a thump on the monitor. "Who did this to you?"

Suddenly, I wish for amnesia. I wish I'd forgotten everything. I wish I could forget right now.

Unfortunately, my memory is intact. I remember everything.

The first symptom arrives at the crest of a wave of nausea instead, swallowing me with the flashbacks, but I don't think it's from the concussion. I melt into the pillows, shutting my eyes.

Maybe it helps. Maybe I'll be able to say the name if I don't face him.

But I have to.

I straighten.

I speak.

"Lucy."

For a moment, only silence .

Crushing silence of screaming pain governed by the beep, beep, beep, faster and quicker as the speechlessness stretches; his ragged breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out, a quiet symphony of agony. Silence that voices all the things he can't.

Outside, the sun happily sets on the longest day of the year. From the expanse of the horizon, it can't reach the corners of a hospital room or cast its smile upon us.

Inside these oppressive quarters, his clouds aren't the usual placid gray, serenely traveling with the wind and shining in the sun. They're tormented and tempestuous, crackling with lightning and thunder, threat and destruction.

Miles's hand falls from mine.

His skin is the color of the walls, so pale I worry for a second he'll fall next onto me on the hospital bed. He struggles to keep himself upright but his posture is defeated, demolished under the weight of crushing guilt and agony.

I want to reach for him, but something stronger than logistics keeps me away.

He hides his face behind his palms. With a deep breath, as though my revelation solidified something inside him into steel, he lifts his head from his hunched shoulders.

"Do you… Do you not want me to press charges?" I hear myself asking.

She isn't some random, faceless thug. She's someone he knows—I don't know exactly who she is, but Miles knows her.

Fuck, maybe he won't believe me.

I think I'm dizzy again. I think I might throw up.

Miles doesn't entertain the idea for a second. "What? Why would I—Of course we're pressing charges, Zoe." He clamps his jaw so tightly it might give him a concussion too. "You'd better hope the police catch her before I do, or I swear to— "

He doesn't get to finish the sentence, and I'll never know its ending.

"Zoe!" The door whines open, then closed, but I don't catch sight of my mother before she's collecting me in her arms. "My baby. Oh, my baby." She squeezes me as though I might vanish at any second. My breath leaves me in a whoosh. It's then that I notice it was hanging on to Mile's answer.

Physical displays of affection of any kind are frowned upon by Your Honor, just like any semblance of human emotion. If he were here, he'd certainly have words about the slight dishevel of his daughter's curls, like she had discarded her robe in a hurry, and the crack in her voice that's entirely foreign to me.

"Hi, Mom," my inaudible rasp is muffled by the silk of her blouse.

I count the raging pitter-pattering of her pulse against my cheek. Only when it slows to the ticking of the clock does she unweave the hug. Mom brushes my strands messed by her hug, strands so dark they perfectly match hers, exposing the white bandage that covers my forehead.

"Did I hurt you? Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Grandpa shows perfect timing by choosing the same moment to make his arrival, his stride slower due to his years, alleviating her with a much needed pause to recompose herself. Mom welcomes it, and he takes her place close to me.

"Little bee." His eyes are watery before the first syllable is out. "My sweet little bee."

With thoughtful caution, he cocoons me in his bear hug, the sweetest bittersweet spot, my nostalgic happy place. Every time he closes me in his arms, I savor it like it's the last. The last time could have been. This could be it.

"It's okay." I hide the bitter realization from my voice. "I'm okay, Grandpa. Really. I don't want you to worry about me. That's the job of all these doctors."

"I'll always worry about you. Get over it."

"You know what that means. I'll have no choice but to worry about you, too." I give him my cheeky grin. My stitches are sore so I dropped it much too quickly.

Thankfully, the old man has shifted his attention. He walks around my bed in the direction of the armchair, but his intentions aren't set on it. He pulls my boyfriend into the same hug he always reserves for me, full of everything that can't be reduced to words.

"Thank you, son."

Miles is stiff, but it melts off as they exchange more words. I'm not able to catch them, as my mother comes to sit by my feet on the bed.

She lays her palm on my knee, over the blanket. "How are you, darling?"

"I'm okay, Mom. I am," I promise.

She has no qualms about showing her reluctance to believe me with the subtle raise of her brow. "You certainly don't look okay, darling."

"Why, thank you, darling mother. That's precisely what a wounded woman needs to hear," I deadpan.

"Happy to see that the bandage on your head hasn't affected your penchant for sarcasm."

"Me too," I agree, un-sarcastically for once.

"Has your father been informed about this incident?"

She knew the answer before she asked the question.

"Don't call him." The demand rushes out of me, but everyone hears it clearly. Grandpa, who has occupied the seat, seizes my unstabbed hand.

If my father doesn't know, there's a reason for his absence. If he knows and doesn't come…

It'd hurt. Whether I anticipate or expect it. Like a train wreck, I could see it coming from miles away. I could brace myself and prepare for it. but and the impact would not be less devastating.

"Don't to bother him," I say with deliberate slowness. "My prognosis is good. I'm fine."

Mom gives me one of her sharp looks, the one that tells me it's a lost fight. "I'll let him know."

"If you must." I relent with apathy that's noticeably fake, my body already folding in on itself to prepare for another hit.

From the other side, Grandpa tightens his hold around my hand.

"What about your recovery? When did you say you're getting discharged? You'll come home with me darling. You're not going back to your place."

"Zoe is coming home with me," Miles declares, stopping my mother's ideas before they root, as though it's a done deal, signed and stamped by both of us. "We've been considering getting our own house together, anyway, so there's no point delaying."

Say what, again?

I vaguely recall Dr. Chen's list of symptoms for a head wound, and it included impaired hearing, amnesia, and even hallucinations.

Perhaps this, all of this, is a hallucination, a product of my fertile imagination. My family standing in a room with Miles as my boyfriend as he announces we'll be taking the next step in our relationship by building a home together is something conceivable only in dreams—or delusions.

"Oh, darling, I didn't know." We have one thing in common. "That's great! If that's what you want, I'm so happy."

"Surprise!" I shriek with a maniacal grin, staring at my fake boyfriend.

A mild concussion and five stitches.

That's the official diagnosis. Utterly underwhelming.

A mere mild concussion doesn't seem capable of capturing the magnitude of the events. It doesn't seem right that my brush with death only resulted in a stitched bump on my head and a small scar as the only evidence.

Were it not for the sutured skin, I might have believed I imagined the whole thing. I might have been able to convince myself it was all in my head.

I'm grateful for my own sake, but something so minor as a concussion—a mild one, at that—almost makes me feel like the panic I felt was unwarranted; that I overreacted.

I can't remember how long we stayed there, suspended in time. The clock warped by the terror in my bones, bending and stretching minutes into eternities. But the panic, the black void where nothing but pain and impending death existed, wasn't something I could easily forget—no matter how much I tried.

Shoes tap on tiles before ebbing away, shadows color the blinds before disappearing, but I don't hear or see any of them.

With the frenzy of doctors and visitors and questions finally over, and the adrenaline has evaporated, all that's left for me to do is absorb and process what happened. Avoidance is no longer a possibility when the alternative is to fix my attention on Miles's statue.

Watching dusk swallow the sky, he distanced himself as I spoke to the police—yet my skin felt heavy with the uncanny familiarity of his full attention as I relayed and relived every second of my personal horror movie. Once I came to the end , he jumped in, informing the detectives he knew the suspect.

Lucy is a fan, one of the few who regularly camp outside the club's facilities to greet the players. He informed them he's stumbled upon her in other places, too. They quickly deduced the term isn't fan. It's stalker .

Then, he trudged back to the square he seems to have rented, where he remains still—so very still, so purposely unmoving, it's unnerving.

As though I'm glass, and he fears the slightest shift will disturb the breeze and turn me into broken pieces on the ground. That his gaze might splinter, his touch might shatter me completely.

I'm broken already. I'm thousands of tiny broken fragments waiting to be put back together.

Miles leans against the windowsill, like he can't sustain his own weight. His guilt is too heavy of a burden.

Behind him, the sunlight sets on the horizon as the stars stir. I want to count them as they light up, one, then the other, and sprinkle the sky with sheer beauty. I want to appreciate the absolute preciousness of getting to witness another sunset, getting to live another night and wake up for a new day.

But Miles occupies my entire eyesight.

Through overwhelmed eyes that burn with water, I count four steps. Four brisk steps are all it takes for him to cross the room and tower over my bed.

"Fuck, Zoe."

His trembling hand swallows my neck, the pad of his thumb falling to my carotid with precision. It presses delicately into my skin, as though the music in the monitor can be a liar, a manipulator lulling him with lies.

It isn't. Its hum becomes louder as my lungs expand with Miles's scent, the antiseptic no longer reaches in my nostrils.

My pulse taps against his fingerprint, speaking to him in an ancient language to which only he owns the key to decode.

"You're okay," he murmurs.

I'm not sure if it's a plea or reassurance, or whether it's sent for my ears or his.

I echo it anyway. "I'm okay."

Abruptly, as quickly as he's there, he isn't.

He retracts with stuttering steps, depriving me of his healing touch. I fist the scratchy sheets to stop my rogue hands from reaching for him.

"I'm sorry."

That stops him, his head whipping towards me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

I shift under his stare. The sheets scrape against my bare legs, and for a moment I wonder if my clothes were salvaged. The thought of losing my old bee pajamas stirs a distinct wave of grief.

"Never apologize to me. Why would you?" He drags his palms down his face. " I should be apologizing to you. I should be begging on my fucking knees for your forgiveness. And it wouldn't be enough."

I blow a strand of hair out of my face but it comes straight back. "I don't see any use for you on your knees right now. "

Miles ignores me with great deliberateness. "I should've—I shouldn't—"

With a frustrated huff, I slap away the same stray strand from my face. "It's not your responsibility to protect me. Not five hours ago, not now."

"You are my girl. I shouldn't have let anything happen to you." He shakes his head like I can't possibly understand. "I most definitely am not going to leave my girlfriend on her own after she was attacked. An attack that was my fault, by the way."

I ignore the critical portion of his speech to address the only part I can. "Was it your hand holding the gun?"

At the hard clamp of his teeth on his lip, I know he tastes blood, but I don't know whose—mine or his. "I brought her into your life. I put you in the spotlight, I put you in harm's way."

"Was it your hand holding the gun?" I repeat.

"And then I wasn't there to protect you."

"Was it your hand holding the gun?" I repeat again.

He nods, but it's not in agreement. It means acceptance that I won't let him evade the question.

So he replies, "It wasn't my hand. Bu—"

"Then it wasn't your fault. You bear zero responsibility for this, and therefore, you shouldn't feel obligated to take care of me in any way."

"Are you listening to yourself, Zoe?" He shakes his head with vigor, pulling at the straight ends of his hair. His knuckles whiten against his ash-brown hair in tandem to the tick of his jaw. "You'll stay with me, at my place, until I find a safe home for us."

"That seems excessive. I'm fine." I inspect the fading burgundy polish on my nails, wincing when a sting reminds me of the stabbing needle in my hand.

"You're lying in a hospital bed. Because of me." My retort is stolen from my open mouth by his haunted confession. "I thought you were dead. Dead. "

He points his glossy gaze to the floor as though he sees something in the worn tiles that I can't. An open grave and a polished casket.

My mouth dries. I clamp it shut, and swallow aggressively trying to unknot the tangle in my throat.

I've barely begun to process what happened, let alone have the time to consider what it was like for him. To come home to find me bleeding out on the floor.

I'm not the only one who lived infernal, unthinkable things today.

Unsure of what to say, what to do, I start to pull my hair into a ponytail, hissing when my hand complains again. Black curls rain down on the white pillow like raven feathers in the desert, a eulogy to death.

Miles stares at them, all around me, seeing what I saw. He comes closer again, hovering before he perches on the bed, relieving some of his weight.

He removes every hair strand from the adhesive on my head with careful patience. When all the strands are in his fist, he combs them with tender fingers, trailing his nails through my scalp. My lashes are heavy but refuse to fall.

Finally, Miles slides off one of my scrunchies from his wrist and ties the ponytail deftly. At his almost imperceptible tug, I meet his gaze.

The sharp ridges of his cheekbones push punishingly against ashen skin, stark in contrast to the shadows under his thick eyelashes — and inside his irises.

"I know you hate me. Trust me, I know . But I would like you alive and well to hate me for a very long time. The hell you personally raise for me is heaven to me, more than the quiet of your absence could ever be." The monitor might be faulty after all, because it doesn't translate the small stutter of my beating heart. "Forgive me, but your life is not something that I'm willing to negotiate with, and that goddamned woman is still out there somewhere. I'm not jeopardizing your safety ever again."

I'm unsure if his adamance is overcompensation fueled by the need to ease misplaced guilt or if it sprouts from some sense of debt and obligation. I'm unsure if this is simply his way of doing what he deems as right. One thing I know for sure is that it has nothing to do with pretense or image or reputation.

I'm unsure about my motives, too. For all the reasons my instinctive answer is no, a part of me wants to say yes. I justify it with a current of dread at the simple thought of going home, reliving what happened, and with my need for more time before I'm ready to return and revisit the crime scene.

My concession comes in a whisper. "Okay."

"Yeah?" Miles whispers, too.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. Good."

My head hurts too much to even begin unraveling all the things his sigh is laced with.

Thankfully, Nurse Jada's grin appears under the doorframe.

"Mr. Miles," she greets him like an old friend. "We need to take your fiancée for a quick scan. Maybe you can use the time to take care of yourself, too. Leave the room for a second and take a breath or get some food. Perhaps, take care of your kidneys and simply use the bathroom." She lifts a swift eyebrow at him, her reproach full of concern. I stopped listening right at the beginning. "Let me grab you a wheelchair, honey."

As soon as she is safely out of earshot, I choke out the incredulous word. " Fiancée ?"

His smile is back along with the shrug of his shoulders. Utterly unapologetic.

I let myself fall back on the bed. "I swear, one day I'll wake up and you'll have gotten us married, two children and a dog."

He doesn't deny it.