Chapter 48
Sienna's POV
I woke to the sound of steady beeping and the faint smell of disinfectant. My eyelids felt heavy, like someone had glued them shut, and my mouth was dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. The room was too bright even through my closed eyes—pale morning light filtering through what must have been half-open blinds.
My right hand throbbed dully, and when I tried to flex my fingers, something tugged at the back of my hand. An IV line.
Hospital.
The memory came back in fragments. The fever. The vertigo. Collapsing.
And then—nothing.
I forced my eyes open. A private room. Cream-colored walls. A monitor beside the bed tracking my heart rate in soft, rhythmic beeps. The IV bag hanging above me was half-empty, clear fluid dripping slowly through the tube.
I turned my head slightly, wincing at the stiffness in my neck, and froze.
Hayes was slumped in the chair beside my bed, his head tilted at an awkward angle, one hand still loosely holding mine.
He was asleep.
My breath caught in my throat.
He looked exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his jaw was tight even in sleep, like his body hadn't fully let go of whatever tension he'd been carrying. His black hoodie was wrinkled, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it all night.
But what made my chest tighten was the way his fingers were curled around mine—firm, possessive, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
I stared at him, unable to look away.
For the first time in six years, there was no guarded distance between us. No careful masks. No professional boundaries. Just Hayes, sitting beside me in a hospital room, holding my hand like he used to.
Like he still cared.
No. Don't.
I tried to pull my hand back, but my fingers were too weak, and the slight movement made him stir.
His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening the moment he saw I was awake. He sat up straight, his grip on my hand tightening instinctively before he seemed to realize what he was doing and loosened it slightly.
"You're awake." His voice was rough, hoarse from lack of sleep. He cleared his throat, eyes scanning my face like he was checking for something—pain, fever, distress. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," I said automatically, but my voice came out cracked and weak. I swallowed, trying to wet my throat. "I'm fine."
Hayes's jaw tightened. "You collapsed. You had a 104-degree fever. You're not fine."
I looked away, staring at the IV line instead of meeting his eyes. "It was just a cold. I'll be okay soon."
"Just a cold." He repeated the words slowly, like he was tasting them and finding them bitter. "You worked yourself into the ground, ignored every warning sign your body gave you, and passed out alone in your apartment. That's not 'just a cold,' Sienna."
His tone was sharp, but underneath it, I heard something else. Something unguarded.
Fear.
I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
The silence stretched between us, filled only by the beeping of the heart monitor. Hayes rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. When he dropped his hand, I saw something raw in his eyes—guilt, anger, and something else I couldn't name.
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was quieter now, but strained, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.
I kept my eyes fixed on the IV line. "I didn't think it was that bad."
"Sienna." He stopped, pressing his lips together hard. I heard him take a breath, saw his jaw clench like he was swallowing back something harsher. "You collapsed. Alone. You could've—" He cut himself off, rubbing his face again. "I know I was an asshole the other night. I know I pushed you. But this—" He gestured at the IV, at my swollen wrist. "You almost—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
My gaze snapped to him despite myself. He was staring at me now, his expression torn between frustration and something that looked like fear.
"You knew," he said, voice low and controlled, but I could hear the crack underneath. "You knew you were pushing too hard. You knew your wrist was getting worse. You knew you were running on fumes. And you didn't say a damn word. Not to me. Not to anyone."
"What was I supposed to say?" The words came out sharper than I intended, defensive. "That I couldn't handle it? That I needed help? You think I wanted to look weak in front of—"
I stopped myself, but it was too late.
"In front of me," Hayes finished, his voice flat.
I looked away again, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "So that's what I am now?" His tone softened, but there was an edge of hurt beneath the anger. "A stranger? Someone you can't ask for help? Someone you'd rather collapse alone than—"
He stopped, shaking his head sharply, like he was angry at himself for saying it.
"Hayes—"
"Because that's what you've been treating me like, isn't it?" He looked at me then, and the rawness in his eyes made my chest ache. "A stranger. A business contact. Someone you tolerate because you have to, not because—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw working, and looked away. His shoulders were tense, his breathing carefully controlled, like he was fighting to keep something locked down.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That he wasn't a stranger. That he never could be, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.
But I couldn't say any of that. Because admitting it would mean admitting everything else—that I still cared, that I never stopped caring, that six years apart hadn't changed a damn thing.
Hayes rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly, and when he looked at me again, there was something different in his eyes. Something that made my stomach twist.
"Sienna." His voice was quieter now, almost careful. "What happened six years ago?"
My heart stopped.
"What?" I managed to say, but my voice came out too high, too defensive.
"Six years ago," he repeated, his eyes locked on mine. "Before you left. Something happened, didn't it?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. "I don't—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice was still quiet, but there was steel underneath it now. "I've spent six years thinking I knew why you left. Thinking I understood. But sitting here, watching you work yourself into the ground, seeing how hard you try to keep me at arm's length—" He paused, his jaw working. "I don't think I know anything."
I couldn't breathe.
"So I'm asking you." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "What happened? What made you think leaving was the only option?"