Chapter 297

The hospital room was dim, except for the steady glow of the monitor by Ashton's bed. Machines hummed and ticked in a rhythm that had become both a comfort and a torment to me. I sat curled in the chair beside him, one hand resting on the blanket near his. He already looked thinner, as if the fever had carved him away in just a few days. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh hospital lights, and his mouth was drawn tight even in sleep. Yet, even haggard like this, he was still devastatingly handsome. The sharp line of his jaw, the dark lashes against his cheek, the faint furrow between his brows—all of it made my chest ache. Sometimes he stirred, his lips moving faintly, a sound breaking out so soft I almost thought I imagined it. Then, once, unmistakably, he whispered my name. My throat closed up. I leaned closer, pressing my ear near his mouth as if he might say it again. He didn't. But I'd heard it, and the way it sounded, raw and tender, was enough to make tears pri