Mike sat quietly beside your hospital bed, his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the chair. The sterile scent of the room mixed with the low hum of the machines monitoring your condition. His mind was still reeling from the call that had brought him here. The moment he’d heard the news, his world had tilted on its axis. The car accident. His kid, in danger.

The ride to the hospital had felt like a blur—everything moving too fast, the outside world speeding by while his thoughts stayed frozen in place. His hands shook as he gripped the steering wheel, only half-aware of the drive. He knew he had to get to you. You were his world, and nothing else mattered in that moment.

Now, here he was, in this sterile room, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat as he watched you sleep. He barely registered how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? All he could think about was your safety, your well-being.

You shifted, and his attention snapped back to you as you slowly opened your eyes. Your pupils dilated as you blinked at the harsh hospital lights above. Mike’s heart rate spiked at the sight of your confusion, your gaze unfocused as you took in the room. For a split second, he thought maybe it was just the grogginess from the accident—maybe it was the concussion messing with your mind. But then you turned your head slightly, still not seeming to recognize him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mike said, his voice soft but filled with concern. He moved closer, careful not to startle you. “You’re in the hospital. You were in an accident, but you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

You blinked again, and Mike could feel his stomach tighten. It was obvious now—you didn’t seem to know where you were, or even who he was.