chapter 168

chapter 168
Grace's POV:
The steady rhythm of the heart monitor had become my anchor.
Each beep was proof—proof that he was still here, still breathing, still fighting.
I sat in the hard plastic chair I'd dragged to his bedside hours ago, my spine aching from the uncomfortable angle, my eyes burning from exhaustion I refused to acknowledge.
The ICU room was dim, bathed in the soft blue glow of medical equipment, and somewhere beyond the sealed door, the hospital hummed with its endless nocturnal machinery.
I had just finished wiping down his arms with a warm cloth, careful to avoid the IV lines threading into his veins like lifelines to another world.
The nurses had offered to do it, but I'd refused.
I needed to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, to remind myself that he was real and alive and here.
The surgery had been successful, they'd told me. Stable condition. Out of immediate danger. But I couldn't shake the terror that had burrowed into my chest, couldn't stop seeing that crushed car door, couldn't stop hearing the wet sound of my own screaming.
I lifted my hand slowly, my gaze tracing the familiar lines of Maverick's face.
Even unconscious, even bruised and battered and connected to a dozen different machines, he looked dangerous. His jaw was sharp enough to cut, his cheekbones harsh shadows in the dim light. There was a fresh cut along his hairline where glass had sliced through skin, and purple bruising bloomed across the left side of his face like a dark flower.
My fingertips hovered just above his brow, trembling.
"I remember everything," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the mechanical symphony of the room. "I remember the way you used to make me coffee in the morning even though you hated the smell. I remember how you'd fall asleep with your hand over my hip like you were afraid I'd disappear if you let go."
My throat tightened, the words scraping out raw and painful. "I remember loving you so much it terrified me."
I touched him then—just barely, my fingertip tracing the arch of his eyebrow. He was so still, so unnervingly quiet, this man who had never been anything but noise and chaos and overwhelming presence.
The tears came without warning, hot and silent, tracking down my cheeks to drip from my jaw. I didn't bother wiping them away. Instead, I leaned closer, my hair falling forward to curtain us both in darkness, and the scent of jasmine and sandalwood from my perfume mingled with the sharp antiseptic smell of the hospital.
My lips brushed against his.
It wasn't even a kiss, not really—just a ghost of contact, a prayer pressed against his mouth.
His lips moved against mine—a response so faint I almost convinced myself I'd imagined it.
Then I felt him kiss me back.
My eyes flew open, and I found myself staring directly into gray-blue irises that were sharp and clear and focused on me with the intensity of a predator who had just spotted prey.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs with violent force.
For two full seconds, I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at his face as his eyes opened—those impossible gray-blue eyes, sharp and clear and focused on me with the intensity of a predator who had just spotted prey.
And then his lips curved into a smile, slow and knowing and utterly devastating.
"You've gotten better at that," he rasped, his voice like gravel scraped over velvet.
The sound broke something in me.
My eyes widened, heat flooding through my chest, and I felt my entire face transform, felt the way my eyes began to burn and blur and then shine.
I tried to turn my head to see him properly, to confirm that this was real, that he was actually awake and speaking and alive—
"You're awake," I choked out, the words catching in my throat like broken glass. "You're really—"
His low laugh rumbled through the space between us, and I felt it vibrate against my lips.
"How could I let you wait any longer?" he murmured, and then he was kissing me properly, his hand still firm on the back of my neck as he pulled me down to him.
His mouth moved against mine with devastating familiarity, and I tasted copper and mint and something darker, something that was purely him, and I kissed him back with two years of desperation compressed into a single point of contact.
The tears came faster now, spilling from beneath my closed lids, and I felt one drop land on his cheekbone with a soft wet sound.
He nipped my lower lip in retaliation—a gentle punishment—then released me, his breath coming in shallow pants that made the heart monitor beep faster. "Stop crying," he said, and there was a helplessness in his voice that didn't match the command. "I'm awake, aren't I? I'm right here."
I opened my eyes, and the world was blurry and too bright and absolutely perfect.
"I missed you," I managed, my voice thick with unshed sobs. I lifted my hand to scrub at my cheeks, pressing the heel of my palm against my eye socket like I could force the tears back inside. "I missed you so much—"
His gaze sharpened.
I watched his pupils contract, watched the way his pale eyelids drew up slightly as he studied me—my swollen eyes, my blotchy cheeks, the hollows that exhaustion had carved beneath my cheekbones.
He saw something there that made his expression shift, the lazy satisfaction of waking to my kiss replaced by something harder, more alert.
"You remember," he said. It wasn't a question.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Something flickered in the depths of his eyes—a wave of emotion so intense and so quickly controlled that I almost missed it.
Relief. Grief. Joy. Pain. All of it compressed into a single heartbeat before his expression smoothed out into something almost unreadable.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, and I reached for him automatically, my hands finding his shoulders to steady him. But before I could help him, he grabbed my wrist and pulled, yanking me off balance and onto the edge of the hospital bed.
I landed with a soft sound of surprise, and then his arm was around my waist, long and possessive, and his nose was pressing into the curve of my cheek.
"Then my injuries weren't for nothing," he whispered against my skin.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I felt my face crumple, felt the tears threatening again, and I pressed my forehead against his shoulder and breathed in the smell of antiseptic and bandages and underneath it all, the warm musk that was purely Maverick.
"Don't you dare," I said, my voice muffled against his hospital gown. "Don't you dare act like getting hit by a car was some kind of romantic gesture."