Chapter 58
Sienna's POV
Payton walked in with a bag from the cafeteria, took one look at the thermal containers and Hayes standing by the window, and raised an eyebrow.
"Well this looks cozy." She set down her bag. "What'd I miss?"
"Sienna's moving to my place. She needs care," he said calmly.
Payton's eyes widened fractionally. She looked at Hayes, then back at me, then seemed to make a decision.
"I agree."
"Payton!"
"What?" She crossed her arms. "You're in no shape to live alone, Sienna. Your hand's wrecked, you can barely lift things, and you passed out three days ago."
She softened slightly.
"Look, I love you. But I can't take care of you properly. I leave at seven every morning and don't get back until six at night. If something happens while I'm gone—"
"Exactly," Hayes said quietly.
I felt cornered. Outmaneuvered.
Payton pulled up the visitor chair, sat down facing me with that stubborn set to her shoulders.
"You have two choices here. Keep insisting you're fine when you're clearly not, or accept help from someone who actually has the resources and flexibility to make sure you don't end up back in this hospital bed."
Her expression gentled.
"Your independence is admirable. But it's also going to kill you if you're not careful."
The fight drained out of me all at once.
Hayes was watching me with that careful, controlled patience. Waiting for my answer but not pushing. Giving me the illusion of choice even though we all knew there was only one realistic option.
"Just temporary," I finally said, the words barely audible. "Until my hand heals."
Something shifted in Hayes's expression. Not quite relief, but close.
"Temporary," he agreed. "I'll pick you up tomorrow after discharge."
He gathered the empty containers with practiced efficiency, packed everything back into the thermal bag.
At the door he paused, looking back.
"Get some rest. I'll be here in the morning."
Then he was gone, and I was left staring at the space where he'd stood.
Payton waited exactly three seconds before speaking.
"You made the right choice."
"Did I?" My voice came out hollow.
"Yes." She was firm. "Because you can't keep running on pride and stubbornness. Eventually something's got to give."
She squeezed my shoulder.
"Trust me on this one."
After Payton finished the burgers and fried chicken she'd bought for two by herself, she left.
The room felt impossibly empty.
I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere between Ava's visit and Hayes's proposal and Payton's support, my carefully constructed defenses had been systematically dismantled.
I was going to move into Hayes's house.
Live under his roof.
Accept his help.
The thought should have terrified me. And it did, in a way. But underneath that fear was something else—something that felt dangerously close to relief.
Just temporary, I told myself. Until my hand heals. Then I'm gone.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying to myself.
Because once I walked through that door, once I let Hayes back into my life in any real capacity—there would be no going back to the careful distance we'd maintained.
---
By the time I finished signing the last form, it was nine o'clock.
I walked through the automatic doors and stopped.
Hayes's car idled at the curb. The dark muscle car gleamed in the pale winter sunlight, and he stood beside it in a black hoodie and jeans, hands in his pockets, watching the entrance with that focused intensity I remembered too well.
My chest tightened.
He stepped forward, reaching for the small duffel Payton had packed for me.
"I can carry it myself." I extended my left hand toward the bag.
His fingers were already gripping the handle, showing no intention of letting go. "Doctor said you can't lift heavy things."
"Only my right hand is injured. My left is fine." I tried to pull the bag toward me. "This weight is nothing."
"Your right hand needs rest, and your left has to compensate for balance." His tone was calm but brooked no argument as he opened the passenger door. "Extra burden will add strain to your wrist."
"Hayes—"
"I'm not negotiating with you." He cut me off, his gaze sweeping over my bandaged right hand before returning to my face. "Get in the car."
I opened my mouth to argue, but seeing that look in his eyes—equal parts worry and stubbornness—I finally sighed. "You're being overprotective."
"Maybe." He waited until I settled into the passenger seat before placing the bag in the back. "But you'll accept it."
That wasn't a question.
I slid into the seat without further argument. Because we both knew that when it came to my physical condition, he wouldn't back down.
The interior smell was familiar. Cedar wood and something uniquely his, that clean masculine scent that used to cling to his hoodies whenever I'd steal them.
My body relaxed before my brain could stop it. Six years of carefully maintained distance, and my traitorous muscles still recognized this space as safe.
Hayes closed my door, circled to the driver's side, and pulled into traffic with practiced ease.
For several blocks neither of us spoke. Just the low rumble of the engine and the distant hum of midday traffic.
Then music filtered through the speakers. Not random radio—a playlist. The opening notes of a song I hadn't heard in years but recognized instantly. The indie rock track I'd played on repeat during AP Chemistry cramming sessions. Followed by the acoustic ballad I'd loved that winter when everything felt impossibly complicated.
My hands clenched in my lap.
"You still have these." My voice came out flat.
Hayes kept his eyes on the road. "Never deleted them."
"Why not?"
His jaw tightened. "Lazy, I guess."
Liar. Because keeping every song I'd ever loved queued up for six years wasn't lazy. It was deliberate.
The silence that followed was heavy with everything we weren't saying.