The air in the hospital room was filled with the soft hum of machines and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Lyla lay on the hospital bed, her pale face framed by her dark hair, her body unnaturally still under the crisp white sheets.
Noah stood at the doorway for a long moment, gripping the frame so tightly his knuckles turned white. He had been the first to enter after the doctor allowed visitors, but now that he was inside, he felt as if his feet were glued to the floor.
She looked fragile, almost too delicate, and he hated it.
Noah had always known Lyla as strong—stubborn, fiery, with eyes that held a quiet determination. Seeing her like this, unmoving and helpless, sent a storm of emotions crashing over him.
He took slow steps toward her bed, pulling the chair beside it before sitting down. His fingers reached for her hand, and the moment his skin touched hers, a shiver ran down his spine.
She was warm, alive.
But she wasn't waking up.
