He let out a low, ragged breath.

I watched in absolute disbelief as his eyelids slowly lifted.

Two sharp, piercing gray eyes focused directly on mine.

I stood frozen, my breath trapped in my throat.

His grip was cold, but incredibly tight.

“Ethan,” I breathed, my voice shaking.

The heart monitor beside the bed beeped in a frantic, irregular rhythm.

The red numbers on the screen climbed higher.

I reached my free hand toward the red emergency button on the wall.

“No,” a voice rasped.

It was barely a whisper, dry and scraping like sandpaper.

Ethan’s fingers tightened further, pulling me down toward his face.

“Don’t,” he choked out.

His chest heaved under the light blue hospital gown.

“You’re awake,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “I need to call the doctor.”

“No doctors,” he whispered, his gray eyes wide with a sudden, desperate panic.

“But your heart—”

“Quiet,” he gasped, fighting for breath. “They’ll hear.”

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The rain lashed against the tall glass windows behind us, a steady, drumming roar.