I woke to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of a heart monitor, but the scariest thing in the room wasn’t the machines. It was the man holding my hand.
Pain clawed through me, every muscle screaming, but it wasn’t what kept me tethered to reality. His fingers pressed against mine, slow and careful, a gesture that looked like devotion. Exhausted eyes, slightly messy hair, a voice trembling in all the right places. Anyone else would have seen a loving husband keeping vigil. I knew better. That same hand had wrapped around my throat hours before.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over my skin. “The doctors said you had a bad fall. I thought I lost you.”
A fall. The lie was rehearsed. My throat betrayed me. My jaw throbbed. One eye shut by swelling, the other barely open. Every breath was sharp, jagged, and wrong. I stared at the ceiling, afraid to meet his gaze.
He leaned closer. Mint and whiskey on his breath. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Not comfort. Threat.
The nurse entered. Suddenly, his mask cracked, and tears pricked his eyes. “How is she?”
“She’s stable,” the nurse said.
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you. She means everything to me.”
When the nurse left, he said quietly, almost a command, “Rest.”
Then the doctor arrived, calm and focused on me, not him. “Step out, please,” he said to my husband. “Hospital policy.”
He refused at first. Two security guards appeared. My husband squeezed my hand like it was the final act of control. “I’ll be right outside,” he murmured.
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