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The room feels different without the doctor in it, quieter in a way that settles heavy instead of calm, like everything that was being held at bay is pressing back in now that we’re alone.

Conor has his phone out, his head slightly bent as he types something out, his large hands moving over the small screen in a way that should look awkward but doesn’t, because even something as simple as that looks controlled when he does it.

I watch him without meaning to. Every movement. The way his jaw tightens slightly. The way his focus narrows. Then he slides the phone back into his pocket and looks at me.

“The doctor said the best thing for you right now is rest,” he says, his voice back to that steady, grounded tone. “I have someone bringing you broth,” he continues, and the way he says the word makes it clear he’s not impressed with it. “It’ll be better than anything this place has.”

I don’t respond right away. Instead, my eyes shift. Taking in the room for the first time since I woke up. Really taking it in. This isn’t a normal hospital room. Not even close. It feels too big, too clean, too… comfortable.

There’s an actual couch, not one of those hard plastic things that barely qualifies as a place to sit, but a real one, upholstered and deep enough to actually lie on. There’s real furniture. Details that don’t belong in a place like this. My eyes move back to him slowly. What kind of place did he bring me to?

My throat is too sore for this right now, so I close my eyes and drift off. This time, it’s to the image of bright green eyes staring at me.

Chapter 17

Conor

It’s been three days since Jaxon first woke up. Three days of slow progress, measured improvement, and absolute silence when it comes to anything that actually matters.

His throat is better. Not healed, not fully, but better. Enough that he can speak. Enough that he can fucking argue. And enough that he can keep shutting me out.

I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. I’ve followed Mom’s advice, given him space, held back when every instinct I have tells me to push, to demand answers, to take control of a situation that is very clearly not under control.

Today I don’t have that option. They’re releasing him. And there is no way in hell I’m letting him walk out of here and go back to that apartment as if nothing happened.

“You’re coming home with me,” I tell him, my tone leaving no room for interpretation, no room for argument, even though I know exactly what’s coming. Because I’ve already said this once. More than once, actually.

“I’m not arguing with you about this again, Conor,” he shoots back immediately, his voice still rough but stronger than it was, stronger than I’d like given the situation. “I’m going back to my place.”

My jaw tightens.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” he continues, and there’s something in that, something genuine that only makes this worse, “but I can’t keep this up.”

Keep what up? Breathing? Staying alive? Letting someone help him?

The frustration spikes, sharp and immediate, but I hold it in, watching instead as he reaches for the clothes I brought him, moving with that same slow, careful precision that tells me he’s still in pain even if he won’t admit it.

Every step costs him something. I can see it. The way he shifts his weight, the way he braces, the way he refuses to show it. He heads toward the bathroom without looking at me again.

That’s where my patience starts to snap. Because he’s still acting like this is a choice. Like I’m just going to stand here and let him walk right back into whatever almost got him killed.

As soon as he steps out of the bathroom, I’m already there, closing the distance before he can take more than a step, positioning myself directly in front of him so there’s no way he can just walk past me. This conversation is happening.

He stops short. Not because he wants to. Because he has to. There’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes, sharp and immediate, but underneath it I can see the strain, the way his body is still fighting to keep up with what he’s demanding from it. The way even standing there is costing him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re not going back there,” I say, my voice low but firm, not raised, not aggressive, but final in a way that doesn’t invite argument. His jaw tightens.

“I don’t get a say in that?” he shoots back, his voice rough but steady, pushing through the pain.

“No,” I answer without hesitation.

Oh, he doesn’t like that. I see it in the way his shoulders pull back, in the way his expression hardens, the walls slamming back into place just as quickly as they dropped when he was lying in that bed.

“I’m not your problem, Conor,” he says, each word deliberate, like he’s trying to make me understand something I clearly don’t. “You don’t get to decide what happens to me.”

“And you don’t get to walk back into a situation that almost killed you,” I fire back, stepping closer without thinking, my voice tightening despite my effort to keep it controlled. “Not when I know about it. Not when I can do something about it.”

His eyes flash, hot and intense.