Page 25 of Make You Mine

Amerie

Apparently, surviving a near-fatal hypoglycemic episode doesn’t come with a trophy. Just a needle in your arm and a husband who looks like he’s aged ten years from all the stress and worry.

Declan’s slumped in the chair beside my hospital bed. His head’s bowed and his hands are clasped together like he’s praying. He hasn’t shaved and his crumpled shirt is the same one he’d been wearing yesterday morning when he left for work.

There’s a takeout cup of coffee on the tray table that’s long gone cold, and a deli sandwich from the hospital cafeteria that only has a few bites taken out of it.

For a couple seconds, I wonder if I might be dreaming, but then the sting in my arm reminds me that I’m very much awake. I’m hooked up to an IV, among other machines set up to monitor me, some beeping every few seconds.

There’re wires taped to my chest and a pressure cuff wrapped around my bicep. I’m in a hospital gown and I can tell by the pale light filtering through the window that it’s early morning.

It’s the next day.

I didn’t just pass out for a few seconds like I’ve done in the past. It must’ve been a serious collapse for me to wind up in the hospital connected to machines, with Declan posted by my side like a faithful guard dog.

For me to pass out yesterday and wake up the next day…

The memories come slowly at first, then swoop in faster: the disorientation, the difficulty packing, the way I couldn’t seem to focus on anything no matter how many deep breaths I took.

My hands had felt clumsy, my thoughts scattered, like I was wading through fog.

At the time, I’d chalked it up to stress.

The long to-do list and my blood sugar being slightly off like it could be on occasion. But nothing too unmanageable.

Nothing serious.

By the time I made it to the train station, it had escalated into something else entirely.

I remember the cold sweat breaking across my back, the dizziness that made the platform tilt beneath my feet, the dryness in my mouth that no amount of water could fix.

I remember reaching for something to steady myself, and the way my stomach flipped and everything turned blurry.

My fingers shook as I fumbled with my insulin pen and gave myself an injection that felt off. That only seemed to speed up how terrible I was already feeling.

None of it made any sense.

Now, lying still under hospital sheets, I realize the truth I refused to admit to myself in the moment: I’d been off all day.

From the moment I got up and took my usual injection and ate breakfast. I was so used to powering through anyway that I ignored every red flag. I never saw it coming.

But that’s not even the most troubling part. Just why was my insulin suddenly trying to kill me?

The thought is still forming in my hazy mind when a sharp movement interrupts me.

Declan stirs, his head snapping up. The moment he sees my eyes open, he darts over to my side and scoops my hand up in his.

“Christ, love,” he breathes, kissing the back of my hand. “You’re awake.”

It takes him another few seconds to fully process this. More waves of relief crash over him before he bends forward and presses his lips to mine.

“You scared the bloody life out of me. Do you need anything? Water? Another blanket? Just say the word and I’ll get it.”

I try to speak, but it takes a few attempts. My throat burns and my mouth feels like it’s been lined with chalk.

The weirdest part is that speech feels unnatural, like my brain refuses to cooperate with putting the words together like it usually would so seamlessly. Probably a side effect of my collapse.

With some effort, I’m able to force three simple, hoarse words out.

“I love you.”

Declan loses any last composure he had left, kissing me all over—my forehead, my lips, my cheeks. He kisses me as if in reassurance, like some sort of apology.

“I love you too. You have no bloody idea how much,” he murmurs, brushing my hair back from my face. “Let’s get the nurse in, yeah? She needs to take a look at you.”

He fumbles for the call button and presses it without looking away from me, his thumb still gently stroking the back of my hand.

A nurse appears in the doorway not long after, a blonde in blue scrubs with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a badge ID that reads Mollie.

“Well,” she says, stepping closer. “It’s good to see you back with us, Amerie. You gave us quite the scare. Especially your husband. He’s hardly left your side since you’ve come in.”

I blink at her, still trying to piece together everything that’s happened and why. It’d be easier if I didn’t feel like my brain were steeped in fog.

“Your glucose levels have been improving steadily,” she continues, checking the IV and the monitor as she speaks.

“That’s encouraging. You may still feel disoriented, possibly nauseous or foggy.

Your body’s adjusting. Your brain went without glucose for quite an alarming period, which explains why you collapsed the way you did.

But your readings look better now, which is a very good sign. ”

She looks at me kindly, then over at Declan. She mentions bringing in a light lunch of chicken broth and toast, stating that it should help with how weak and disoriented I feel.

“And now that you’re awake, maybe your husband’ll finally go home for a bit of rest. We’ve promised we’ll keep a good eye on you while he’s gone.”

The nurse leaves with a rustle of scrubs and a gentle promise to check in later, the door clicking softly behind her. Silence falls over the room except for the monitors and their steady beeps and pulses.

Declan stays seated beside the bed, his hand still wrapped around mine, thumb stroking absently across my knuckles like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

I can feel the roughness of his skin, the quiet tension still wound tight in his fingers despite the nurse’s reassurance.

His other hand smooths back a loose curl from my forehead, gentle but hesitant, like he’s afraid I might slip away again if he presses too hard.

I swallow with difficulty. The ache in my throat intensifies, raw and irritated from hours of forced stillness. But I manage a breath, then another, and push the word out through the gravel of my voice.

“The kids?”

It’s barely audible, another rasp that feels so difficult it’s exhausting.

His brows furrows and he leans in until he understands what I’m asking.

“They’re all right,” he murmurs. “Chelsea brought them by last night, just for a bit. You were still out cold, but Willow stuck by your side. It was getting late, so I asked her to take them back home for the night.”

I nod, though the movement makes my temples throb. He notices and strokes my hand more deliberately, like he’s trying to calm both of us.

“I couldn’t leave you, love. I stayed here. Couldn’t bear the thought of not being by your side.”

Anxiety unspools in my gut. I don’t know the source yet, but it sets me on edge as my mind works through the fog.

I gather my strength and squeeze his hand, willing my voice to obey me.

“Go home,” I murmur.

He blinks. “Amerie, I’m not?—”

“Babe…” I croak, forcing the word out like it weighs a hundred pounds. My eyes meet his. I hold his gaze. “Go home. Please. I’ll… I’ll be here.”

Each syllable feels like lifting concrete. I’m dragging each one just to make them reach my mouth. My tongue feels thick. My thoughts are garbled by static. But I push the words through anyway, because something in me screams to keep trying.

That it’s very important I communicate this to him. Even if I’m not yet sure why.

He studies my face like he’s trying to decode the hidden message in what I’m not saying. But he hears the insistence in my voice. He sees the flicker in my dark eyes and knows to trust me.

After a beat, he nods slowly.

“Alright. I’ll head home. Grab a shower. Check on the kids. Maybe sneak in an hour or two of shuteye if they let me.” He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’ll bring them back to see you later. You just rest, yeah?”

I nod again.

He rises from the chair and adjusts the blanket over me like he’s afraid I’ll come undone the moment he turns his back.

“Press that button for the nurses the second you feel off. Don’t wait. Not for anything.”

“I won’t,” I murmur.

He looks at me a moment longer, and then he’s gone, his footsteps padding against the tile, the door easing shut behind him.

I lay my head back against the hospital pillow and close my eyes, urging the haze in my mind to clear out and for my thoughts to form more coherently.

The alone time actually helps. The peace and quiet to just rest and… think .

It’s another half hour before Mollie returns with the tray of light lunch that she promised.

“Lunch delivery,” she says with a wink. “Don’t get too excited, my dear, it’s not five-star dining.”

She sets the tray down on the bedside table and adjusts it with care before wheeling it gently toward me.

The scent of warm, salty broth drifts up, mingling with the faint toastiness of dry bread.

There’s a little paper cup of apple juice and a plastic spoon, all tucked in neatly on a tray patterned with cartoon flowers.

“Managed to send your husband off, finally,” Mollie adds, folding her arms with a soft chuckle. “He looked absolutely knackered. Wouldn’t leave your side all night, bless him.”

My throat aches as I grind out a few words. “Thank you. He… he takes good care of me.”

Mollie gives a kind smile. “That much is obvious. Couldn’t stop fretting over you. If I had a pound for every time he asked how you were doing, I’d be off on holiday.”

Before I can muster the energy to respond, the door creaks again and another nurse steps in. She’s a round-faced redhead with a clipboard in one hand and a gossipy gleam in her eyes, like she’s bursting at the seams to chitchat.

“Just here to swap the paperwork,” she says to Mollie, then adds with a grin. “Heard you had a run-in with one of the Hughes sisters yesterday.”