Chapter 170

Grace's POV:

I crossed to open it, and found my mother standing in the hallway.

She looked tired, but her eyes were bright with concern as she peered past me into the room.

"How is Maverick?" she asked softly.

"He's awake." The words felt surreal on my tongue. "Mom, he's awake. He's going to be okay."

Her face transformed, relief washing over her features. She reached out to squeeze my hand, her fingers thin but warm, and I squeezed back, drawing strength from the contact.

"Mrs. White." Maverick's voice came from the bed, and I turned to see him attempting to push himself into a more upright position—wincing slightly but determined to show respect. "I'm sorry to have worried you. I'm told I'll live."

My mother released my hand and stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over him, and learned to read the truth behind brave faces.

Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because some of the tension eased from her shoulders.

"As long as you're alright," she said, her voice softening with genuine relief. "Focus on getting better—rest properly and let yourself heal. Grace has been worried sick about you."

"Yes, ma'am." Maverick's voice was meek—actually meek—and I stared at him in disbelief. This man, who commanded boardrooms and ice rinks and my entire nervous system with equal ease, was behaving like a scolded schoolboy in front of my mother.

"I brought soup," Mom continued, gesturing to the thermal container she'd set on the small table by the door. "Homemade. The hospital food is terrible for recovery—too much sodium, not enough real nutrition. Make sure he eats it while it's still warm."

"Mom, you didn't have to—"

"Of course I did." She cut me off with a gentle smile. "Now. I'm going to give you two some privacy. But Grace—" She caught my eye, and something passed between us, some unspoken understanding. "Don't forget to take care of yourself, too."

She slipped out as quietly as she'd arrived, and I was left standing in the middle of the room with a container of soup and a recovering patient who was watching me with entirely too much satisfaction.

"Your mother likes me," Maverick said.

"My mother is a saint." I retrieved the thermal container and carried it to his bedside, unscrewing the lid to release a cloud of fragrant steam. "She likes everyone."

"She likes me specifically." He shifted against the pillows, grimacing slightly at the movement, and held out his hand. "Feed me."

I stared at him.

"I'm injured," he reminded me, and had the audacity to let his voice go plaintive. "Critically injured. The doctor said I shouldn't strain myself. Lifting a spoon might be too much—"

"The doctor said you need to rest," I interrupted, but I was already settling onto the edge of his bed, already reaching for the spoon that my mother had thoughtfully included. "He didn't say you were incapable of feeding yourself."

"Grace." He caught my wrist—gently, so gently, his thumb tracing over my pulse point. "Please."

And because I was weak—because I had spent hours thinking I might lose him, because the memory of his blood on my hands was still too fresh, too raw—I sighed and dipped the spoon into the soup.

I lifted it to my lips first, blowing softly to cool it, then extended it toward him.

Maverick's eyes never left my face as he accepted the offering.

"Good?" I asked.

"Perfect."

We continued in silence—me blowing on each spoonful before feeding it to him, him accepting each bite with a contentment that seemed disproportionate to the simple act of consuming soup.

By the time the container was empty, some of the gray had faded from his complexion, replaced by the faintest hint of color.

"Better," I said, setting the container aside. "Now sleep. The doctor said—"

"I know what the doctor said." Maverick's hand found mine, his fingers threading through my own. "But I've been unconscious for hours. I've had enough sleep."

His grip tightened, and his voice dropped to something lower, more serious. "I want to look at you. I want to hold you. I want to spend every conscious moment I have reminding myself that you're here, that you remember, that I didn't lose you—"

"Maverick."I sighed, recognizing the stubborn set of his jaw—the same expression he wore when he'd decided something and no force on earth would change his mind. "Fine. I'll stay and talk with you for a while. But you need to actually rest at some point."

"Deal," he said, and the smile that spread across his bruised face was so triumphant.

---

Later that evening, after the nurses had arranged his transfer to a larger private room in the recovery wing, I found myself lying beside him in a bed that was more than spacious enough for two people—though that did nothing to ease my anxiety about accidentally rolling into his injured side during the night, especially given my less-than-peaceful sleeping habits.

"I'm going to hurt you," I protested, trying to maintain some distance between my body and his bandaged abdomen. "If I roll over in my sleep—"

"Then I'll wake up," he said simply. "And I'll have you in my arms. That's worth any amount of pain."

"That's not—" I broke off as his hand slid beneath the hem of my shirt, his palm warm against the bare skin of my lower back. "Maverick. You're supposed to be resting."

"I am resting." His fingers traced lazy patterns along my spine. "Very peacefully. With my girlfriend in my arms. What could be more restful than this?"

"Your girlfriend who is trying to keep you from tearing your stitches—"

His hand drifted lower.

"Maverick."

"I almost died today." His voice was light, teasing, but his fingers continued their wandering exploration. "Don't I deserve some comfort?"

I caught his wrist and firmly relocated his hand to a more appropriate position—namely, outside my clothing entirely. "You deserve to heal. Which requires not engaging in strenuous activity."

"This isn't strenuous." But he subsided, tucking his hand against his own chest with exaggerated obedience. "Fine. I'll behave. For now."

I exhaled slowly, adjusting my position to rest my head against his shoulder—carefully, so carefully, hyperaware of every bandage, every bruise, every place where his body was still knitting itself back together.

"Go to sleep," I murmured. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

His breathing slowed, deepened, and I lay awake in the darkness, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear—that precious, irreplaceable sound that I had come so close to losing.

Outside the window, the city lights of St. Jude glittered against the night sky like scattered diamonds.

Inside the room, Maverick Cross slept, and I kept watch, and the world continued turning.