DANTE.
She looked like a ghost under the hospital lights. Still. Too still.
I sat beside her bed, elbows on my knees, hands braced against the weight if my own uselessness. That sickly beeping from the Montour carved into my head like a knife. Every soft breath she took from the oxygen tubes felt borrowed. Fragile.
I had her hand in mine–small, cold, bruised at the knuckles. And all I could do was hold it tighter, like that would tether her to this world. To me.
Her lashes fluttered, heavy with the effort. She blinked slowly, lips barely parted.
“Dante…”
That voice, soft, broken, lodged itself straight into my ribs. I gripped the bed Rail, I didn't breathe. I just watched her eyes try to focus on mine like she was waking up from underwater.
She was alive. Christ.
I dipped my
