Ten weeks. Seventy days. One thousand, six hundred and eighty hours.
Ethan Hawthorne didn't need a calendar to tell him how long it had been. He lived the time in the increments of IV drips and the steady, haunting pulse of the cardiac monitor. It had been fifteen weeks since he had actually heard Annie's voice- fifteen weeks since she had looked at him with those wide, intuitive blue eyes and called him out on his nonsense.
That silence was a physical weight in his chest, a jagged stone that made every breath feel like a chore.
He had dreamed of this moment in a thousand different ways. In some dreams, she sat up suddenly, laughing at him for looking so disheveled. In others, she simply reached out and touched his face, the fog clearing instantly. But in reality, the room remained stagnant, filled with the scent of lilies and the hum of the ventilator that had become the soundtrack to his life.
Since Dylan had lifted the ban, Ethan had become a shadow in Room 412. He was more than a visitor; he was a guard. He had stayed through the night shifts when the hospital was a tomb, and through the morning rushes when the halls were a chaotic blur of scrubs and clipboards. He looked like a wreck, and he knew it. His jaw was covered in a thick, dark beard that felt itchy and foreign.
His eyes were perpetually bloodshot, underscored by deep, purple crescents of exhaustion. He had perfected the art of the "sink shower," scrubbing his skin with lukewarm water and paper towels in the cramped hospital bathroom, and his diet consisted almost entirely of stale granola bars and lukewarm black coffee from the vending machine down the hall.
But as he sat there, his knees pressed against the side of Annie's bed, he felt a strange, profound sense of peace. He felt better than he had in years. The secret war was over. Margaret was behind bars, Brandon was facing a life sentence for attempted murder, and the "Wednesday House" was being gutted by investigators. Annie was safe. The predator was gone. Now, all that was left was the wait.
"You're missing a lot of drama out there, doll," Ethan murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet room. He took her hand, marveling- as he did every hour. at how small and delicate it felt in his. He began to rub his thumb over her knuckles, a rhythmic, grounding motion.
"Vanessa and Peggy are officially 'social outcasts,'" he continued, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "It turns out that being an accomplice to a murder plot doesn't look great on a college application. Kyson actually stood up in the middle of the cafeteria and told everyone the truth. I think he's trying to be a hero now. It's annoying, honestly. That's supposed to be my job."
He leaned in closer, his shadow falling across her pale face. He decided to turn up the heat, to be the arrogant, flirty version of himself that she always rolled her eyes at. He knew her vitals reacted to his tone- he had spent weeks studying the way her heart rate flickered when he got close.
"I'm serious, Annie," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. "You've got about ten weeks of flirting to catch up on. I've been sitting here telling you how beautiful you look even in a hospital gown, which- let's be honest, is a lie. It's a terrible color for you. But you? You make it work. It's unfair, really. I look like I've been living in a cave, and you still look like a painting."
He shifted his grip, lacing his fingers through hers, feeling the slight callouses on her fingertips from years of holding a paintbrush.
"The second you wake up, babydoll, I'm taking you away from all this. No more white walls. No more beeping. I'm thinking a cabin. Somewhere with a lot of trees and zero cell service. I'll bring the paint, you bring the talent, and I'll just sit there and look pretty for you. Since I've had so much practice sitting still lately."
He let out a soft, dry chuckle, but his eyes remained intensely focused on her face. "I'm getting greedy, Annie. I want to hear you laugh. I want to hear you tell me I'm being an idiot. I'd give anything just to have you roll your eyes at me one more time."
He wasn't expecting an answer. He had said these things a thousand times before. He expected the monitor to keep its steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep...
But then, the air in the room seemed to shift.
The cardiac monitor began to accelerate. The green line jumped, jagged and frantic, the alarm chirping a warning that her heart rate was climbing into the hundreds. Ethan stood up instinctively, his hand tightening on hers. "Annie?"
He watched her chest. For the first time in ten weeks, the movement wasn't just the mechanical rise and fall dictated by the ventilator.
There was a hitch. A shallow, hitching gasp that came from her own lungs.
"Annie, look at me," Ethan commanded, his voice cracking with a sudden, overwhelming surge of adrenaline. "Come on, doll. Fight through it. Open your eyes."
He saw the muscles in her neck strain. Her fingers, which had been limp for seventy days, suddenly curled. They didn't just twitch- they gripped his hand with a surprising, desperate strength. It was the grip of someone drowning, reaching for a lifeline.
Then, her eyelids flickered.
They shuttered like a broken film reel, struggling against the weight of the sedation and the long sleep.
Slowly, agonizingly, they opened.
The blue of her eyes was clouded, the pupils blown wide as they tried to adjust to the light of the room, but they were there. She squinted, her gaze swimming until it finally landed on the dark, bearded silhouette hovering over her.
"Ethan?"
The sound was a ghost. It was a dry, papery rasp, barely louder than the hum of the machines, but it hit Ethan with the force of an explosion. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. It was life.
He felt his vision blur as tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed finally broke free. He leaned down, his forehead coming to rest against hers, his shoulders shaking with a sob of pure, unadulterated relief.
"I'm here," he choked out, his voice thick and broken. "I'm right here, babydoll. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
Her eyes seemed to clear for a second, a flicker of the old Annie- the girl who saw everything, returning to the surface. She didn't have the strength to speak again, but she didn't need to. Her hand squeezed his one more time, a silent promise that she was back, and that she wasn't going anywhere.
Ethan didn't call for the nurse immediately. He didn't want the world to rush back in just yet. For one perfect, shattering minute, it was just the two of them in the quiet room, the silence finally broken by the sound of her breathing and the steady, beautiful beat of a heart that was finally, truly awake.
"What are you doing here?"