Chapter 52
Sienna's POV
When I woke again, the first thing I saw was light—soft and golden, slanting through the hospital window like it couldn't decide whether to stay or go. The second thing was Hayes.
He sat in the chair beside my bed, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
I blinked, trying to orient myself. The events of this morning came back in fragments—Hayes's tight jaw as he'd walked out, his last words hanging in the air like a threat. I'm going to find out what really happened.
My throat went dry. "What time is it?"
"Around five." His voice was quiet, almost gentle.
I pushed myself up, wincing as the IV tugged. My hand was still swollen, the joint stiff and hot. Hayes's eyes tracked the movement, something flickering across his face before he shuttered it.
"Don't," he said when I reached for the water bottle on the bedside table. He was already moving, unscrewing the cap, threading a straw through the opening with practiced efficiency that made my chest tight.
He held it to my lips. Waited.
I stared at the straw, my mind racing. This was wrong. All of it. The way he was looking at me. The careful tenderness in his movements. He'd left to find answers, and now he was back, and I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to fall apart.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" The question came out sharper than I'd intended.
Hayes was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving mine. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough around the edges. "I'm trying to figure out how you survived the last six years."
The words hit like a physical blow. I pulled back, the straw slipping from my lips. "Hayes—"
"No." He set the bottle down, his jaw tight. "I need you to stop pretending. I need you to stop acting like you're fine when you're clearly not."
My pulse hammered. Did he know the truth?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
His laugh was bitter. "Don't you?"
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Outside, a cart rattled past. Someone laughed in the hallway. Normal sounds. Normal life. While mine was unraveling thread by thread.
Hayes stared at me for a long time, as if waiting for me to speak, waiting for me to admit something. But we both knew I wouldn't.
"Are you hungry?" he finally asked, the pressing edge in his voice softening slightly.
I blinked. "What?"
He stood, grabbing his jacket from the bedside table. "I'll go get something."
"You don't need to—"
"I'm not asking." He cut me off, that unyielding tone back in his voice. "What do you want?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Finally, I just shook my head.
Hayes looked at me, something complicated flickering in his eyes, then turned toward the door.
The sound of the door closing was soft, but in the quiet hospital room, it felt deafening.
---
He came back about forty minutes later, carrying several paper bags, the scent of cinnamon gum mixing with the aroma of food as he entered. He set the bags on the bedside table and began unpacking—bland pasta, soup, a small container of what looked like fresh fruit.
I stared at the food, nausea churning in my stomach. The IV had left me queasy, and the weight of Hayes's gaze wasn't helping.
"Eat." His voice cut through my thoughts.
I picked up the spoon, managed two sips of the soup before my stomach twisted. I set it down, grimacing.
Hayes was already moving. He slid the soup away, his movements sharp and precise, and pushed the pasta toward me instead. "Try this."
I looked down at the plate. Steam rose from the noodles, and for a second, I almost laughed. As if carbs could fix the mess we were in.
Then I saw the green flecks scattered through the sauce.
Peas. The ones I hated.
Hayes seemed to understand. He pulled the plate toward him and started picking out the peas, one by one, his fingers deft and methodical.
The room was silent except for the soft clink of the fork against porcelain. I watched him, my throat tightening. He still remembered what I didn't like. He'd done this before. Hundreds of times. In high school, when I'd complained about cafeteria food. At his house, when his chef would accidentally add vegetables I hated.
Don't do this.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. The monitor's beeping became unbearably loud. I stared at the pile of peas growing on the edge of the plate and suddenly felt like I couldn't hold it together anymore.
"The Phoenix Project," I said finally, my voice carefully controlled. "I'll have someone from the studio take over."
The atmosphere in the room changed. Sharpened.
Hayes's head snapped up, his eyes locking on mine with an intensity that made my pulse spike. "What?"
"My hand needs rest." I kept my tone clinical, detached. "The studio has other designers. They're talented. Professional. They can handle—"
"No."
The word was flat. Final.
I forced myself to meet his gaze. "Hayes, I can't—"
"The project stays with you." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "You're not walking away. Not again."
"I'm not walking away." The frustration bled through despite my best efforts. "I'm just trying to—"
"Trying to what?" He cut me off, his jaw tight. "I'm not letting you use this as an excuse to push me away."
The accusation stung more than it should have. "My hand—"
"Your hand will heal." His eyes burned into mine. "And when it does, you'll come back. Until then, you rest. That's the deal."
"There is no deal—"
"Then I'll make one." He stood, closing the distance between us in two strides. "You stay on the project. You rest. And when you're ready, you come back. No substitutes. No replacements."
I stared at him, my pulse hammering. "What about your training? The games? You need—"
"The shoes you've already made are enough." His voice softened slightly, though his eyes remained hard. "This is just the regular season. That's not a problem."
"But—"
"You don't have to worry about my performance anymore. And you're not pushing me away again."
The words landed like a punch to the gut.