CHAPTER FIFTEEN: AFTERMATH
DAMIAN
Waking up felt like drowning in molasses.
Everything was heavy. My eyes. My limbs. My mind. Even sound reached me in muffled waves, like I was underwater.
The first thing I registered was her voice.
Maya.
Soft, trembling, determined. A lifeline. I held on to it like breath.
"I'm here," she said, over and over, like a mantra.
My lips moved, but I wasn't sure they worked. Then her face came into focus. Pale. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Hope warring with fear.
I wanted to say, Don't cry. I'm here.
But I couldn't. So I blinked.
And in that blink, I gave her everything I had.
MAYA
He was back. Not fully. Not yet. But enough to hold on.
The doctors were guarded. "Consciousness doesn't guarantee clarity," they warned. "There may be memory gaps. Mood swings. Delayed recovery."
I didn't care.
He was alive.
That was enough.
For now.
The recovery was slow and brutal.
Damian hated being dependent. Hated the beeping machines, the wires, the cautious tone in everyone's voice. But he tolerated it for me.
"Don't look at me like I'm broken," he grumbled one morning, attempting to sit up.
"You're not broken," I replied, adjusting his pillow. "You're healing."
He raised an eyebrow. "Says the woman who flinches every time I close my eyes."
I didn't argue. Because he was right.
I did.
Every. Single. Time.
DAMIAN
I'd built empires. Conquered boardrooms. Walked into meetings and had men twice my age stumble over their confidence.
But none of that prepared me for this.
Learning how to walk again.
Needing help to get to the bathroom.
Forgetting my own assistant's name, even just for a moment.
It was humbling.
It was hell.
And then she'd walk in carrying soup, or flowers, or just that maddeningly soft expression and it didn't feel like hell anymore.
It felt like the edge of something survivable.
MAYA
Weeks passed. He grew stronger. Sarcasm returned. Appetite too.
One afternoon, I caught him arguing with a nurse about protein powder and rolled my eyes.
"You sure you're not faking this for the attention?" I teased.
He smirked. "Would you blame me?"
But the jokes couldn't hide the truth: he was scared. We both were.
Scared the trauma had changed something permanent. That we wouldn't find our rhythm again. That the man who kissed me like I was air might vanish beneath the weight of pain.
But each night, I crawled into that too-small hospital bed beside him. And he let me.
And somehow, that was enough.
DAMIAN
They cleared me for discharge after six weeks.
Grandma insisted we come stay with her. "You need peace. And real food," she said. "And Maya needs someone who's not afraid to nag her into sleeping."
So we moved into her coastal estate an elegant place full of creaking floors, sea breeze, and the scent of old books and stronger opinions.
I spent hours on the porch, staring at waves. Letting silence talk to me. Letting Maya's hand rest over mine without needing to speak.
One night, she joined me with a blanket and whispered, "Can I tell you something weird?"
I turned. "Please do."
"I'm late," she said.
I blinked. "Like... late late?"
She nodded. "I haven't tested