Layla's pov
Two weeks had passed since the night Damian was shot. Two weeks of endless hospital visits, late-night worries, and watching over him like a hawk. But today, finally, he was coming home.
I had barely slept the night before, my mind restless with anticipation. Not because I hadn’t enjoyed taking care of him—I had, surprisingly. I had sat by his bed, fed him when he was too weak to hold a spoon, and even helped him adjust his pillows when he was in pain. But I was relieved that he was finally strong enough to leave the hospital, that he was out of danger.
I signed the discharge papers with a grateful heart, thanking the doctor before following Damian outside. Two of his guards behind us, their expressions unreadable as we made our way to the car. Damian moved slower than usua
