CHAPTER 307

CHAPTER 307
WINTER

“You’re free to go, Snowflake,” Zion said, striding into my hospital room with the discharge papers in one hand and that small, relieved smile I’d been waiting days to see properly.

“Finally,” I breathed, the word slipping out on a shaky exhale.

“I’m going home.”

Home—

The place where I could close the door and breathe without someone checking my vitals every hour. The place where I could be me again.

Claire hopped down from the windowsill where she’d been perched like a restless cat, boots hitting the floor with a soft thud.

“It’s about time,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling so wide it crinkled the corners.

“This place blows. The food is sad, the beds are torture devices, and the lighting makes everyone look like zombies.

Zion crossed the room in three strides and stopped beside the bed, hand reaching for mine.

“You ready?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I’m ready. I want to go home.”

"Then let’s go home, Snowflake.”

Clark burst through the doorway like he was making an entrance on a red carpet, phone already in hand, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“Hold everything—nobody’s leaving without the official ‘Winter Survived and Looks Hot Doing It’ commemorative photo,” he announced, waving his phone triumphantly.

“Group shot. Now. We need proof for the family chat that you’re still hotter than half the models on my feed. Come on, trouble—smile for the camera. Or at least squint menacingly. It’s your brand.”

I blinked—slow, surprised—then let out a tiny, cracked laugh.

“I look like I got hit by a truck. And you want to take a picture?"

“Excuse you? You look like a badass who told death to fuck off and then took its parking spot. Iconic. Legendary. Now scoot over—selfie time. Zion, get in here, you big brooding bodyguard. Harry, Claire, Ariel—And Ro don’t just stand there looking like you’re at a funeral. Smile or at least pretend you know how.”

“Fuck off,” Ro muttered, deadpan, but he moved in anyway—stepping close enough that his shoulder brushed the bed rail, arms crossed but positioned so he was in frame.

Zion sighed—long-suffering but fond—and shifted closer to me on the bed, arm sliding around my shoulders protectively. He leaned in, pressing his cheek to mine—careful of the bruises—and flashed a rare, small smile at the camera.

Claire climbed onto the bed on my other side, throwing an arm around my neck and pulling a dramatic duck-face.

Harry leaned in from the foot of the bed, arms still crossed, but the corner of his mouth lifted—just enough to count as a smile in his world.

Ariel squeezed in beside Claire, chin on my shoulder, eyes bright and teary.

“Say ‘fuck the basement,’” Clark ordered.

“Fuck the basement,” Everyone shouted.

Clark snapped the photo—multiple times, angle after angle—then immediately started editing.

“Perfect. Caption: ‘Survived attempted murder, still slaying.’ Hashtag queen. Hashtag unbreakable. Hashtag Zion’s girl. Hashtag Clark’s emotional support patient.”

Harry rolled his eyes from the doorway. Ro’s lips twitched—his version of full-blown laughter.

Zion kissed my forehead.

Clark pocketed his phone with a satisfied grin.

“Photo secured. Legacy preserved. Now let’s get this queen out of this torture chamber."

Finally.

I was going home.

With him.

With them.

...

After the quiet reunion with Jenny and Dad—hugs that were careful and long, Jenny’s tears soaking my shoulder, Dad’s hand resting heavy on my back like he was afraid to let go—I finally slipped away to my room.

I pushed the door open.

My room.

Boy, I missed you.

I wandered to the bathroom next—slow, careful steps, still mindful of the pull in my side. The door was already ajar.

I nudged it wider.

I moved to the sink, turned on the faucet, and let the warm water run over my hands first, then cupped some to my face.

The cool splash against my skin made me close my eyes for a second, breathing in the quiet.

I needed this—needed a moment to wash away the hospital smell, the antiseptic, the fear that still clung to my pores even though I was finally home.

“You okay, Snowflake?”

Zion’s voice came from the doorway—

He was leaning against the frame, barefoot and shirtless, just his dark trousers slung low on his lean hips. The waistband rode that perfect V of muscle that always made my mouth go dry, even now—especially now—when my body still ached and my energy was paper-thin.

His skin was warm-toned in the soft light coming through the frosted window, shoulders broad and strong, the faint scars from old fights and the newer ones from the basement barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look.

He held a pair of my panties—simple black cotton—and one of my favorite nightgowns draped over his forearm..

Just looking at him—half-dressed, casual, beautiful—made my lady parts wake up and take notice.

“Careful, Snowflake,” he murmured, voice low and teasing as he stepped closer, setting the nightgown and panties on the counter beside the sink.

“You keep looking at me like that and I might forget you’re still recovering. I’m trying to be a gentleman here—carrying you around, bringing you clean clothes, resisting the urge to pin you against the wall and remind you exactly how much I missed this body of yours.”

He leaned in from behind, lips brushing the shell of my ear, warm breath sending a shiver straight down my spine.

"The way you’re looking at me right now… I’m starting to think the doctor’s orders about ‘no strenuous activity’ are gonna be real hard to follow. But damn if you don’t make it hard,” he added, voice dropping to a rough whisper.

“One of these days—when you’re healed and I don’t have to worry about pulling stitches—I’m gonna make you blush like that on purpose. Then I’m gonna kiss every inch of you until you forget how to breathe anything but my name.”

My cheeks burned hotter, the flush spreading down my neck despite the lingering bruises.

“Shut up,” I mumbled.

“I’m just… appreciating the view. Patient’s prerogative.”

He grinned—slow, devastating—and pressed a last feather-light kiss to my shoulder, right where the shirt slipped down a fraction.

“Appreciating, huh?” he echoed, lips curving against my ear.

“Careful, Snowflake. Keep looking at me like that and I might forget you’re supposed to be resting."

“You’re evil,” I whispered.

“Only for you,” he said, voice dropping to that velvet growl that always made my knees weak.

He pressed the lightest kiss to the side of my neck—just below the fading bruise, just enough pressure to make heat coil tighter in my belly.

“Don’t worry. I’m a good boy tonight. I’ll let you rest… mostly..."

His lips brushed mine—quick, feather-light, barely a kiss, just the warmest press of skin on skin.

He lingered for one heartbeat, two, letting the contact sink in, letting me feel it: no pressure, no demand, just love.

Just home.

“Welcome home, baby,” he whispered against my mouth..

....

I walked slowly toward the bed, each step pulling at the stitches in my side, sending sharp little reminders that my body wasn’t quite ready to forgive me yet.

Zion met me halfway across the room, eyes scanning me from head to toe like he could see every hidden twinge before I even felt it.

Without a word he slid one arm behind my knees and the other around my back, lifting me carefully, like I was something fragile.

I looped my good arm around his neck and let my head rest against his shoulder, breathing him in: clean soap, faint cologne, the warm skin scent that was just him.

“You’re lighter than I remember,” he murmured against my hair.

“Or maybe I’ve just been dreaming about holding you for so long I forgot how small you feel.”

“Flatterer. I’m basically a sack of bones and bandages right now.”

“Nah,” he said, lips brushing my temple in the lightest kiss.

“You’re my girl. Always have been. Always will be. Bones, bandages, attitude and all.”

He lowered me onto the mattress slowly—easing me down like I was made of glass—then adjusted the pillows behind my head with careful hands.

Zion tugged the blanket up over me with careful hands, tucking it around my shoulders—

His fingers lingered at the edges, smoothing them down, making sure no draft could sneak in.

Then he stepped back for a moment, eyes on me, before rounding the bed and sliding onto the mattress beside me, careful not to jostle anything.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

Half-past eight.

The exhaustion was bone-deep now, pulling at me like gravity, making my eyelids heavy even as I fought to keep them open.

The medications Zion had given me while I was still in the bathroom—painkillers, muscle relaxant, something to take the edge off the constant ache—

“I know,” he said, voice dropping to a husky murmur that vibrated through the quiet room.

He reached out, brushing the backs of his knuckles along my cheek—slow, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of my face all over again.

“But… it’s our first night back together in this bed. I have you here—really here—in my arms, breathing, warm, alive. And after everything… after every single night I spent convinced I might never get this again… I’m not missing a second of it.”

His thumb traced the curve of my cheekbone, lingering at the corner of my mouth, careful of the healing split.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,”

Zion murmured, voice low and rough.

He shifted closer—until his body curved around mine without pressing on any of the places that still hurt.

“Just here. With you in my arms. Looking at you… memorizing every line of your face. Smelling that intoxicating scent of yours—shampoo and skin and you—that still drives me fucking wild. I don’t care if it’s eight-thirty or three in the morning… I’m not closing my eyes until I’m sure this isn’t another dream I’ll wake up from alone.”

His thumb kept tracing slow arcs over my wrist, right where my pulse fluttered—

He leaned in until his forehead rested gently against mine, noses brushing, breaths mingling in the small space between us.

“I spent every night in that chair replaying the worst moments,” he confessed, quieter now, voice thick with the things he’d never said out loud.

“The way you looked when I found you. The way your hand went limp in mine in the ambulance. The way the doctors kept saying ‘we’ll see’ like they were afraid to promise anything. I kept thinking—if I fall asleep, I’ll lose her. If I blink, she’ll be gone. So I stayed awake. I watched you breathe. I counted your heartbeats like they were the only thing keeping mine going.”

He swallowed hard, throat tight against my temple.

“And now you’re here. In our bed. Warm. Alive. Looking back at me with those eyes that still see right through me. I’m not wasting a single second of this. Not tonight. Not ever. I’m going to lie here and hold you and watch you sleep until my own eyes burn, because every breath you take is a miracle I almost didn’t get to witness again.”

He pressed his lips to my forehead—slow, lingering, tasting salt and me and home.

“So sleep, Snowflake,” he whispered against my skin.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m never closing my eyes if it means missing even one moment of you being safe in my arms.”

My fingers flexed weakly in his—once, twice—like I was trying to hold on tighter even as sleep pulled at me.

He smiled into my hair, small and cracked and full of everything he felt.

“I love you,” he breathed. “More than yesterday. More than right now. More than forever can hold.”

I sighed—soft, surrendering—and let my body relax completely against him.

The last thing I felt was his hand covering mine over his heart, his lips pressing another gentle kiss to my forehead.

Darkness folded over me like a blanket.

Safe.

Warm.

His.

Always his.