Chapter 146

Chapter 146
Eleanor POV


Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him lying motionless in the hospital bed.

Derek had always been vibrant, perpetually in motion. Now he was utterly still, his usually tanned skin pale against the white sheets, making the dark stubble on his jaw stand out in stark contrast. His head was partially bandaged, white gauze covering the right side where I knew from Alexander that he'd taken the brunt of the impact. What I could see of his face showed faint bruising along his cheekbone, a purplish shadow that hadn't been there before.

Tubes and wires connected to his body, sustaining functions he could no longer manage himself. A breathing tube ran from his mouth to the ventilator, secured with medical tape that seemed harshly functional against his lips—lips that had kissed me with such passion just before the crash.

Smaller tubes delivered medication, while others drained fluids I didn't want to identify. A pulse oximeter clamped to his finger glowed with a soft red light, measuring oxygen that his blood carried to cells that might never wake.

My legs gave way beneath me. Alexander caught me before I could fall, his arm strong around my waist as he guided me to the chair beside Derek's bed. The cushion creaked beneath my weight, the sound jarringly mundane in the sterile room. Tears burned hot trails down my cheeks, and I made no effort to stop them. This broken figure couldn't be my Derek—couldn't be the man whose smile could light up even the darkest corners of my heart, whose voice had asked me to start over just moments before our world shattered.

I was vaguely aware of Catherine and Jonathan exchanging a look across Derek's bed, their expressions softening as they witnessed my undisguised grief.

"Perhaps we should give her a moment," Alexander murmured, and I felt a rush of gratitude toward him.

Jonathan nodded, placing a hand briefly on Derek's shoulder before moving toward the door. Catherine hesitated, her gaze lingering on her son's face before she followed her husband. Her hand trembled slightly as she touched Derek's blanket, straightening it in a gesture so maternal it made my heart ache.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything," she said softly, her voice catching. "Take all the time you need."

Olivia squeezed my shoulder gently before she left, a silent promise of support. The door closed behind them with a soft click that seemed to seal Derek and me in our own private world.

The room fell quiet except for the rhythmic sounds of the medical equipment keeping Derek alive—the steady beep of the heart monitor marking each beat, the mechanical whoosh of the ventilator pushing air into lungs that wouldn't fill on their own.

I slid from the chair to my knees beside his bed, ignoring the twinge of pain from my injuries. My trembling hands hovered inches from his face, afraid that even the lightest touch might somehow hurt him further.

"Derek," I whispered, the word barely audible even in the silence of the room.

Carefully, I reached out, my fingertips tracing the contours of his face with reverence—the smooth forehead now crossed with a faint scar, the strong eyebrows that would arch expressively when he was amused, the high cheekbones that gave his face its distinctive aristocratic look. I realized I had never truly allowed myself to study him this way, to memorize every detail of his face. The length of his eyelashes, dark crescents against his pale skin. The perfect slope of his nose with its slight bump from a childhood injury he'd never explained. The lips that had pressed against mine with such urgency just before the crash, now parted slightly around the breathing tube.

My left hand cradled his face while my right found his hand where it lay motionless on the blanket. His fingers were cooler than usual but not cold—there was life in them still, though they didn't curl around mine as they always had before. His skin felt different somehow—less vital, as though some essential element of Derek had retreated deeper inside. I leaned closer until I could feel his shallow breath against my skin—proof that somewhere inside this silent shell, Derek remained.

"I'm here," I told him, my voice strengthening despite the pain in my throat. "Why won't you open your eyes and look at me? Are you angry with me?"

The machines continued their steady rhythm, offering no response. A drop of condensation formed on one of the tubes, trembled for a moment, then fell onto the white sheet, leaving a perfect dark circle like a period at the end of a sentence that hadn't been written.

"Do you remember the last thing you asked me?" I continued, tears falling freely now. "In the car, before... before everything changed. You wanted to know if I would start over with you."

I took his hand in both of mine, pressing it against my cheek where tears made the contact slick. "I didn't get to answer you then, but I'm answering now." I took a shaky breath that seemed to catch on all the jagged edges inside me. "Yes, Derek. Yes, I want to start over with you. Not out of guilt or obligation, but because I love you. I've always loved you."

I searched his face for any reaction, any sign that he could hear me. The monitor beside the bed continued its steady rhythm, the green line peaking and falling with mechanical precision, indifferent to the words that were breaking my heart to speak aloud.

"Can you hear me, Derek? Please, give me some sign. Anything."

As I spoke the words, a single tear slipped from the corner of his closed eye, sliding down his temple to disappear into his hair.

My heart stopped, then raced. "You can hear me," I gasped, squeezing his hand more tightly. "You can hear me! Derek, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

Hope bloomed in my chest, warm and fierce. I leaned closer, my words coming faster now, urgent with newfound belief. The scent of hospital-issue shampoo had replaced his usual cologne, but underneath was still the essence of Derek—a scent I would know anywhere.

"I'll come every day," I promised. "I'll tell you stories, read to you from those books you were always flipping through at home. Remember how you used to tease me about my collection of classic novels? I caught you reading them, though. I'll read every one of them to you."

I described the life we could have together—quiet evenings at home, weekend trips to the lake house, holidays with Margaret. Small, ordinary moments that suddenly seemed precious beyond measure. I imagined us walking through Boston Common in autumn, surrounded by golden leaves that crunched beneath our feet. Sitting by the fireplace at his lake house, watching snow fall on the frozen water as steam rose from mugs of hot chocolate. Waking up together on Sunday mornings, the world quiet around us as sunlight filtered through curtains we would choose together.

"I need to hear you say you love me," I whispered, my voice breaking on the words. "I want to hear it a thousand times, ten thousand times. Please, Derek. Please fight. Please wake up."

I pressed my lips gently against his—our first kiss without his response. His lips were dry and slightly cool, the feeling so different from our passionate exchange in the car that it made my heart contract painfully. The realization brought fresh tears, falling onto his pillow and leaving small damp circles on the white fabric like a constellation of grief.

"I can't imagine life without you," I confessed, resting my forehead against his, careful to avoid the bandages and medical equipment. "I've wasted so much time being afraid, keeping you at a distance. No more, Derek. No more wasted time."

I remained there, his hand pressed against my cheek, tears mingling with hope as I waited for a miracle beneath the steady rhythm of the machines keeping him alive. The January sun continued its arc across the winter sky, shifting the patterns of light and shadow on the wall, and still I didn't move. For the first time since I'd known him, I was the one who stayed, and Derek was the one who couldn't leave.

And in that quiet room, surrounded by machines and monitors, I made a silent vow that I would be there when he opened his eyes—however long it took.