Chapter 281 You're Bleeding!

Chapter 281 You're Bleeding!
OLIVIA'S POV

I woke to the soft beeping of hospital monitors and Jessica's blurry face coming into focus.

"Where's David?" The question tumbled from my lips before I was fully awake, memories of his gentle goodbye kiss on my forehead returning slowly. I hated how vulnerable I sounded, how my first thought was still of him despite everything.

Jessica tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Conference call. He seemed reluctant to leave, but you know how these business things go." She squeezed my hand reassuringly. "Whatever kept him, it must be important."

I nodded, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest. A part of me wondered if business would always come first with him, no matter what promises he made. The door opened and Dr. Nikolai strode in, his tall frame filling the doorway, clipboard in hand.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Peterson. How are we feeling today?"

"Better," I said, flexing my fingers experimentally. The tingling had subsided somewhat. The possibility of regaining full function in my hands sent a flutter of hope through me – my designs, my independence, my future all depended on these fingers.

"Excellent! I've been reviewing your case and have developed a new approach." He pulled up a chair, eyes bright with academic enthusiasm. "Instead of suppressing your hand's stress response to fine motor activities, we'll retrain your nervous system to process the pressure differently."

Jessica quirked an eyebrow. "So you're training her to be a super designer?"

Dr. Nikolai blinked, momentarily confused by her humor. "Not exactly. We'll monitor your muscle responses when using different tools—scissors, pencils, pins—and create specialized exercises to rebuild neural pathways."

The technical explanation made my head spin. Before I could ask for clarification, Dr. Vanessa swept into the room.

"What Nikolai means," she said with a warm smile, "is that we need you to do some fine-detail exercises while we monitor your hands. Simple as that, dear."

Dr. Nikolai adjusted his glasses, looking slightly embarrassed. "Yes, precisely. I'll prepare the rehabilitation room." He excused himself quickly.

Twenty minutes later, I sat in the rehabilitation center with electrodes attached to my forearms. Jessica scrolled through her phone beside me, then suddenly gasped.

"Oh my God." She turned the screen toward me. "Liv, look at this."

My heart stuttered as I read the headline: "A Hero Rescues Pregnant Woman and Child from Burning Vehicle." The accompanying photo showed David, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, helping a visibly pregnant woman away from an overturned car. Fear gripped me, cold and tight around my throat. Was he hurt worse than it looked? Why wasn't he here? The machines monitoring my hands beeped frantically, registering my sudden stress.

"When was this?" My voice sounded distant to my own ears.

"Just uploaded," Jessica said, scanning the article. "About two hours ago."

Dr. Vanessa cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to the exercise at hand—literally. I forced myself to focus, threading a needle while sensors measured the minute tremors in my fingers. But my thoughts kept racing back to David, imagining worst-case scenarios – internal bleeding, traumatic brain injury – each possibility more terrifying than the last.

"He's fine," Jessica whispered, squeezing my shoulder. "You don't need to worry."

But worry I did, through every exercise, through every measurement, until finally I was released to return to my room. I nearly collided with David in the doorway. He stood there, a bouquet of fresh flowers in one hand and a takeout bag that smelled deliciously of pasta in the other. Relief flooded through me so intensely my knees nearly buckled.

"You're here," I breathed, immediately scanning him for injuries. The gash on his forehead had been neatly bandaged, but I could see the edges of an ugly bruise extending beyond the dressing. My designer's eye cataloged every detail, searching for signs of more serious damage.

"I brought dinner," he said simply, as if this were any ordinary evening, as if he hadn't just pulled people from an overturned car.

I reached for his face, my fingers hovering near the bandage. "What happened? Are you okay?"

A strange look crossed his features—confusion, perhaps, or something deeper. "What do you mean?"

Jessica raised her eyebrows. "The accident? The one all over Instagram?"

"Accident?" David repeated, frowning slightly.

Ice slid down my spine. Memory loss. Confusion. Classic concussion symptoms I'd researched during my own injury. My fear intensified as Jessica thrust her phone toward him, playing a shaky video of David extracting a small boy from an overturned vehicle.

"Oh, that," David said, recognition dawning. "It wasn't serious. Just happened to be there."

"Not serious?" I gestured to his forehead. "You're bleeding! Did anyone check you for a concussion?"

"I'm fine, Olivia." His tone was dismissive. "There's no need for that."

"So nobody examined you?" My anxiety ratcheted higher. The thought of losing him to something as preventable as an untreated head injury made me suddenly, irrationally angry.

"It's just a scratch."

"David Wilson." I folded my arms across my chest. "If you don't get checked out, I'm not speaking to you again." The ultimatum surprised even me – when had I started caring this much?

His eyes widened slightly. "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"Not at all. You hit your head hard enough to bleed and you can't even remember pulling people from a car. That's textbook concussion."

David sighed, the fight leaving him. "Alright, I'll talk to a doctor. Just... don't not speak to me. I couldn't bear it."

Dr. Vanessa entered just then, glancing between us with knowing eyes. "Mr. Wilson, my emergency team colleagues mentioned you refused treatment at the scene. Said you were 'completely fine' except for, and I quote, 'a little blood.'"

"See?" I gave him my sternest look.

"I'll arrange for a full neurological workup," Dr. Vanessa said, making a note on her tablet. "Head injuries can be deceptive, Mr. Wilson. Especially when adrenaline is involved."

David nodded, then offered me the flowers and food. "Peace offering?"

I accepted them, unable to maintain my stern expression. "Thank you for saving them," I said quietly.

"Thank you for caring," he replied, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my heart flutter. "I promise I won't try to escape the examination."

I believed him—and wondered when exactly I'd started trusting his promises again. When had this man, who once shattered my heart completely, found his way back into the fortress I'd built around it?

More troubling still: why didn't that terrify me as much as it should?