Chapter 47
Hayes's POV
The room was quiet except for the steady drip of the IV and the soft beep of the monitor tracking her heart rate. Late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting thin golden lines across the floor.
Sienna looked so small in the hospital bed. The blankets were pulled up to her chin, but her right hand was exposed, the IV needle taped to the back of it. Her wrist was swollen, the tendons visibly inflamed even through her skin.
I'd noticed it before—noticed her wincing when she worked, the way she'd flex her fingers like she was trying to shake off the pain. But I hadn't said anything. Hadn't pushed her to stop.
Because I'd been too focused on myself. On my anger. On punishing her for something I didn't even understand.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and rubbed my hands over my face.
What the hell am I doing?
I looked at her face—pale, drawn, shadows under her eyes that shouldn't be there. She'd lost weight since high school. Her cheekbones were sharper. Her collarbones more pronounced.
She wasn't eating enough. Wasn't sleeping enough. Wasn't taking care of herself.
A nurse came in to check her vitals, and I sat back, watching as she adjusted the IV drip and made notes on the chart.
"She should wake up in a few hours," the nurse said gently. "The fluids will help. And we've got her fever down to 101."
"Can I stay?"
She glanced at me, then at Sienna, and something in her expression softened. "Yeah. You can stay."
After she left, I stood and moved closer to the bed, looking down at Sienna's face.
Even asleep, her brow was furrowed, like she was dreaming about something stressful. Her left hand was curled into a loose fist.
I reached out, hesitated, then gently held her hand.
Her palm was rough, calloused from years of working with leather and tools. There were small scars scattered across her fingertips, burns from the heat gun, cuts from blades.
I brushed my thumb over them without thinking, and my chest tightened.
For six years she'd been carrying all of this alone.
And I'd made it worse.
I pulled the chair closer and sat down.
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
Senior year. She'd gotten sick right before finals, some nasty flu that left her feverish and miserable. I'd skipped practice to bring her soup and medicine, and she'd been so stubborn about it, insisting she was fine even as she shivered under three blankets.
"I hate taking medicine," she'd said, scrunching up her face. "It tastes like death."
"Then don't think about the taste," I'd told her, holding out the spoon. "Just swallow it fast."
"You're so bossy."
"And you're so dramatic."
She'd glared at me, but she'd taken the medicine. And afterward, I'd bribed her with her favorite lemon cheesecake, and she'd curled up against my chest, mumbling that it wasn't that bad.
"See?" I'd said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Told you."
"Shut up, Hayes."
But she'd been smiling.
Now, there was no one to bribe her with cheesecake. No one to sit with her while she slept off a fever. No one to remind her to eat, or rest, or take care of herself.
She'd been doing it all alone.
I tightened my grip on her hand, careful not to disturb the IV.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, even though she couldn't hear me. "I'm sorry for last night. I'm sorry for being an asshole. I'm sorry for not seeing how much you were struggling."
My voice cracked.
The heart monitor beeped steadily, filling the silence.
I stayed like that for a long time—holding her hand, watching her breathe, letting the guilt and regret wash over me in waves.
Because the truth was, I'd spent six years being angry at her. Angry that she'd left. Angry that she'd said those things. Angry that she'd moved on while I was stuck, unable to let go.
But sitting here now, looking at her pale face and swollen wrist and the dark circles under her eyes, I realized something.
What if I've been wrong this whole time?
What if she hadn't left because she didn't care? What if there was something else—something she couldn't tell me, something that forced her hand?
What if she'd been suffering just as much as I had, but I'd been too blinded by my own hurt to see it?
I thought about the way she'd looked at me in the training facility when she'd touched my ankle scar. The way her hands had trembled when she'd measured my feet.
She still cares.
Because people who didn't care wouldn't cry in stairwells. Wouldn't flinch every time your name came up. Wouldn't remember every single detail about your injuries, your habits, your body, even after six years apart.
I leaned back in the chair, still holding her hand, and closed my eyes.
What happened, Sienna? What happened that made you think leaving was the only option?
And more importantly—why couldn't you tell me?
The sky gradually darkened. The door opened again, and I saw the same doctor from before.
"She's stable," he said. "Fever's coming down. She should wake up in a few hours, though she'll be groggy. Make sure she drinks water and eats something light. And for God's sake, don't let her go back to work until that wrist heals."
"I won't," I said.
He nodded and left.
I looked back at Sienna, at the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, at the slight furrow still etched between her brows.
And I made a decision.
I'm done being angry. I'm done punishing you for something I don't even understand.
Whatever happened six years ago, whatever reason you had for leaving—I'm going to find out. And I'm going to fix this.
I lifted her hand and pressed it gently against my forehead, closing my eyes.
"Don't give up on me yet," I whispered. "Please."