He hadn't meant to fall asleep.
But somewhere between the silence of the hospital room, the steady beeping of the monitor, and the weight of everything he hadn't said, exhaustion had overtaken him.
His head was still on the edge of Avery's bed when his eyes blinked open. The first thing he felt wasn't physical discomfort or disorientation—it was warmth.
Avery's fingers were entwined with his.
Sloane didn't move.
He stared at their hands like they didn't belong to him. Like if he so much as breathed, the spell would break and Avery would remember all the reasons he shouldn't be holding onto Sloane at all.
God, he'd almost lost him.
The thought had haunted him all day. From the moment Avery had texted that morning—just a casual, offhand "Surgery's in a few hours. Just FYI. Don't freak out lol."—to the moment he'd walked into that cold, sterile room hours later and found Avery pale and unconscious.
And now this.
