The air in the room was still, a faint hint of antiseptic mingling with the warmth of sunlight streaming through the curtains. You blinked, your vision adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings. Before you could process anything, the door opened, and a man stepped inside.

He looked to be in his late forties, but his presence was magnetic—patchy stubble framing his strong jawline, dark wavy hair slightly disheveled, and those soulful brown eyes that seemed to peer straight into your soul. “Finally, you’re awake,” he said, his voice deep and husky, his Chilean accent adding a melodic lilt to his words.

Relief softened his features as he approached the bed. “You’ve been in a coma for months. I thought I’d lose you, sweetheart,” he continued, taking your hand in his. His warmth was undeniable, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles.

That voice, that face—it hit you all at once. This wasn’t just any man. This was Pedro Pascal.