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As soon as I returned Lars's call, I shared the good news with Lena, Vaughn, and Christian, but we all agreed that I should be the one to visit Hunter first.
I force myself to stand, each movement feeling like an uphill battle. Every step toward his room feels like stepping closer to an unknown I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
Hunter has always been my rock, the one person who can ground me in the midst of all the chaos that surrounds us. Seeing him in a coma this past week has shattered something inside me. I felt so powerless, so lost as if a piece of myself was missing. And now, knowing he’s awake, I should feel whole again.
But I don’t. Not yet.
I make my way down the hospital corridor, the cold tiles beneath my feet doing nothing to soothe the storm raging inside me. Lars is waiting for me just outside the nurses’ station. His normally stoic expression is softer today, relieved.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant. “You okay?”
I nod, though I’m not sure if it’s true. "Does he... remember everything?" The question slips out before I can stop it. It’s the only thing I can think about. What if he doesn’t remember me? Us?
Lars rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flicking toward the door down the hall. "He’s still piecing things together, but he remembers you, Megan. He’s been asking for you."
Something in my chest loosens, and for the first time since I got Lars' call, I take a breath. He remembers me. That should be enough to calm the torrent of emotions swirling inside me. But the anxiety gnaws at me still.
I try to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “I guess I should go in then.”
“Take your time,” Lars says, his accented tone understanding. He knows this is bigger than just a reunion. Hunter waking up changes everything, but we still have a long road ahead. “They just took the breathing tube out, but he’s still a little worse for wear.”
I bite my bottom lip anxiously.
“I promise it looks worse than it is. He’s not going anywhere.”
I nod again, but my feet feel like they’re stuck in quicksand. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I manage to force myself to walk toward his room. The door looms ahead of me, and my hand hovers over the handle, my heart pounding in my ears. What if he’s different? What ifwe’redifferent?
The door swings open with a soft creak, and the first thing I notice is the quiet. There aren’t as many beeping machines and no more hushed voices of stoic doctors. Just the soft sound of Hunter breathing. And there he is, sitting up in bed, looking both familiar and entirely different at the same time.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
“Megan,” he attempts to greet me. His voice is rough and raspy from disuse, but it’s Hunter. My Hunter. My knees almost give out, and I have to grip the edge of the doorframe to steady myself.
I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to walk toward him. “You’re awake.”
He gives me a tired smile, a ghost of the one that used to make my heart race.
I don’t know what to say. I should be overjoyed, but there’s this strange sense of distance between us, like an invisible barrier that I don’t know how to break through. The last time I saw him, he was a broken man—battered, unconscious, and onlife support. The love of my life was slipping away from me while I sat helplessly by his bedside, praying for a miracle.
And now he’s back. But the wounds run deeper than I can see.
“Come,” Hunter says, his hand reaching out toward me. His fingers tremble slightly, but the familiar command in his strained is undeniable.
“Don’t talk,” I tell him.
Then I take his hand, feeling the warmth of his pale skin against mine, and all the tension I’ve been holding onto melts away. Without thinking, I sit on the edge of the bed, my other hand still cradling my belly. His gaze drops for a moment, and I can see the questions swirling in his eyes.
“The baby’s fine. We’re both fine.”
Relief floods his expression, but it’s quickly replaced by something else—guilt?
“I don’t want you worrying about my business,” he mutters, his grip tightening on my hand. “You should be?—”
“Stop.” I cut him off, shaking my head. “Don’t do that. You’ve spent your life building that business. It’s our son or daughter’s legacy,” I remind him, patting my stomach.
His jaw clenches, the tension in his body palpable. “I didn’t protect you,” he coughs. “You were left alone to deal with all of this. I?—”
“Stop fucking talking I said.”