Chapter 53
Sienna's POV
"Again."
The word hung between us, heavy with implication. With accusation.
My breath caught. "I'm not—"
"You are." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You've been running since the moment you saw me. And I'm done letting you."
"Hayes—"
"I know what you're doing." His eyes searched mine, relentless. "You think if you push me away, if you keep your distance, everything will be fine."
My throat closed. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"But here's the thing, Sienna." His voice was quiet now, almost gentle. "I'm not the same person I was six years ago. I don't need you to shield me." He paused, his jaw tight. "I can handle it."
I could only stare at him, feeling my defenses crumble piece by piece.
We stayed like that, neither of us speaking. The pasta sat on the bedside table, slowly going cold, untouched. I couldn't eat. Could only stare at the IV tape on my hand, desperately trying to hold myself together.
Hayes sat back down in the chair, but his gaze never left me. That constant attention made me uncomfortable, like every pretense was being stripped away.
The silence in the room stretched on, so long I almost thought he'd just sit there indefinitely. But eventually, the doctor broke the suffocating quiet.
When the doctor came in, clipboard in hand, his professional smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He checked the IV, examined my wrist with careful fingers that still made me wince, then straightened with a sigh.
"Ms. Thorne, your tenosynovitis is quite severe." His tone was matter-of-fact as he made notes on the chart. "The radial flexor carpi tendon sheath is significantly thickened, and there's inflammation in your abductor pollicis longus muscle group."
I nodded, trying to focus on his words instead of the weight of Hayes's stare.
"Your right hand has developed a compensatory movement pattern. Because of the pain, your muscles are firing incorrectly. If you continue high-intensity manual work—I strongly recommend that for at least the next two weeks, Ms. Thorne completely cease any hand-related operations."
"And if I don't?" I asked.
The doctor's mouth thinned. "Permanent damage. Even with surgery, you may never regain full dexterity."
The words settled over the room like a shroud. I stared at my wrist, something cold settling in my chest.
"I understand," I said quietly.
The doctor nodded, made a few more notes, and left.
The silence that followed was heavy
"You're not touching any tools." Hayes's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and uncompromising. "For the next two weeks. At minimum."
I looked up at him, wanting to argue.
"Doctor's orders." He met my eyes, his expression unyielding. "Because I'm the one who signed off on this project. And your current condition?" His jaw tightened. "That's on me."
"That's not—"
"It is." He stood, moving to the window, his hands shoved in his pockets. "I pushed you. I knew you were hurting and I pushed anyway. So now I'm pulling you back."
"Hayes—"
"You'll handle design direction. Consultation. Adjustments." He turned, his eyes hard. "But no hands-on work. Not until you're cleared."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he had no right to dictate my recovery. But the look in his eyes stopped me. It wasn't anger. It was something worse.
Guilt.
"Fine," I said finally, the word tasting bitter. "But that's it. Once I'm healed—"
"Once you're healed," he interrupted, his voice dropping, "we'll see."
---
The hospital settled into its nighttime rhythm—muted footsteps in the hallway, the distant hum of machines, the occasional beep of a monitor. The lights dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the pale wash of moonlight through the window.
I lay still, my eyes closed, but sleep was impossible. My mind kept circling back to Hayes's words earlier.
I heard him shift in the chair. The faint rustle of fabric. Then silence.
I kept my eyes shut, my breathing slow and even, and waited.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Then I felt it—the lightest touch against my wrist. His fingers, barely there, tracing the swollen joint with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and raw in the quiet.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
His fingers lingered for a moment longer, then withdrew. I heard the chair creak softly, and then nothing.
I lay there in the dark, my eyes burning, and felt the first tear slip down my temple.
---
Hayes's POV
The nurse came in sometime after eleven, her footsteps soft on the linoleum. She glanced at Sienna, then at me, her expression surprised.
"You're still here?"
I nodded.
She smiled, adjusting the IV line with practiced ease. "You must be her husband. Not many men would stay this long."
I didn't correct her. Didn't tell her we weren't married. Weren't even together. Instead, I looked at Sienna—pale and fragile in the dim light, her breathing soft and even—and felt something in my chest crack open.
"She used to be harder to take care of," I said quietly.
The nurse laughed softly. "Well, you're doing a good job now."
She left, the door clicking shut behind her.
I stared at Sienna for a long time after that, my mind replaying the nurse's words. Her husband. The title sat heavy in my chest, equal parts longing and regret.
She'd spent six years protecting me. Six years carrying a burden that should never have been hers. And I'd spent those same years hating her for a choice she never made.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and let the weight of it settle over me.
"I'm going to fix this," I said to the empty room. To her. To myself.
Sienna didn't stir. Didn't wake. But in the quiet of that hospital room, with nothing but the hum of machines and the distant sound of the city beyond the window, I made a promise I intended to keep.