Page 137 of A Sinful Gravity

An old guy with white hair, gold-rimmed glasses, clutching reports. He checked the monitors, flipped pages, stayed calm.

"Recovering faster than expected." He said. "Not fatal, got here quick, surgery went smooth. Watch for complications, but next week, regular ward."

"Thanks, doctor." I said.

He nodded, eyed me, then Laila gazing up eagerly, and smiled. "Patient's lucky. Good base, but mood helps too. Company and hope speed things up."

Cassian stayed quiet, smiled, and squeezed my hand.

Laila scampered over, plopped on my lap. "Me too!"

He grinned, grabbed her hand. Laila beamed and launched into her dance class stories.

My phone buzzed like crazy in my bag. Amy.

I stepped onto the balcony. Amy sounded urgent. "Luna, Chicago's set. Theater manager loves your chops, they'll wait one more month."

My fingers twisted my hem. "A month? They're okay with that?"

I wanted to stay longer for Cassian, but not ditch my schedule.

"Yeah." Amy sighed. "That's the max. Delay and the national tour piles up—you're looking at three months of four-hour sleeps, maybe axing some encores. You sure?"

I glanced back through the glass. Cassian listened patiently to Laila, eyes flicking to me, full of tenderness.

"Let me think."

I hung up, walked in. Before I spoke, he did.

"Amy?" He tousled Laila's hair, casual as weather talk. "Go, Luna. The doctor says a week and I'll walk. Sloane's done—I got lawyers on her case, she'll rot in prison forever. No threats."

"But your leg..." I bit my lip, heart aching.

"My leg's not yours. Dance in Chicago, it'll heal faster."

He faked a stern face, but love shone through. "Luna, you belong center stage, shining. I promise, I'll heal right. Daily calls, updates." He smirked. "By your return, I'll walk."

"You—"

"Luna." Softly. "I won't hold you back. Never did, won't now. Dance. I'll wait."

I studied him. Pale, thin face. But his eyes shifted—from possession to trust. It eased me.

"One week." I said. "I'll stay till the regular ward, then go."

He nodded. "One week."

That week became our final, raw heart-to-heart buffer.

The next week felt unreal,the sweetest in my six years.

To make up for leaving, I camped at the hospital.

Mornings, I'd bring homemade oatmeal. He'd gripe about the blandness like a kid but finish under my gaze.

Mornings meant rehab. Two cracked ribs, fractured leg—no walking, but simple bed exercises were allowed.

Therapist showed arm lifts, fists, ankle flexes. He powered through, never complained, but sweat beaded his forehead.