The morning sunlight filtered through the hospital curtains, brushing soft gold across Claude's face. Mio blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering as the haze of sleep gave way to reality. Her eyes moved first—to the ceiling, the white walls, the IV line—and then, finally, to the man sleeping awkwardly beside her bed, his head resting on the edge of the mattress.
Her breath hitched.
Claude Lockheart—her husband, the man who always looked infuriatingly perfect even when he was supposed to be exhausted—looked… different. His cheeks were slightly hollow, the dark circles beneath his eyes deep enough to betray nights without proper rest. His once impeccable hair was messy, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie hung loose, as though he had forgotten what it meant to care about appearances.
Her chest tightened painfully.
When did he start looking this… fragile?
