Page 98 of Life After You

I reach into the inside pocket of my leather jacket, my fingers closing around the sleek black box nestled inside. It’s cool against my palm, solid, real. Unlike the surreal nightmare of this hospital room—the steady beep of the monitors, the antiseptic sting in the air, the pale glow of fluorescent lights washing over Mac’s too-still form.

I swallow hard and place the box gently on the bed beside her, lifting the lid with careful fingers. My chest tightens. It looks even more perfect now than it did when I first saw it. Like it was made for her. Like it belongs to her.

I searched everywhere. Spent hours walking through high-end stores, rejecting piece after piece, until this one stopped me in my tracks. It reminded me of us. Of childhood. Of the meadow behind her parents’ house, where we used to run wild, her laughter ringing through the air. Of the daisies she used to pluck, tucking them into the intricate braids her mother wove into her hair, as if every single flower had been meant for her. As if the earth itself was offering them up to her.

I reach out, my fingers grazing the sautoir necklace—its delicate white gold chain glimmering under the dim hospital lights, three different styles of diamond daisies blossoming along its length.

$65,000. A number that means nothing to me.

I’d pay everything I own, sell my soul to the devil himself, if it meant she’d just open her goddamn eyes.

I exhale slowly, my hands steady as I unclasp the necklace and carefully maneuver it behind her neck. The fine chain disappears against her skin, the diamonds resting just above the collar of her hospital gown. My fingertips brush the pulse point at her throat—a weak, fragile flutter that makes my stomach clench.

She’s here. But she isn’t.

The door creaks open, and I don’t bother looking up as the nurse steps inside.

“Wow,” she breathes, peering over my shoulder. “That’s beautiful. Better than flowers.”

I don’t respond. Just smooth the necklace into place, letting my fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

She steps closer, resting a warm hand on my shoulder. “You sure have taken great care of her, Logan.”

I shake my head. “I haven’t done anything.” My voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

The nurse gives me a knowing smile. “You think that, but being here? Talking to her, singing, brushing the ends of her hair, cleaning her hands? That’s all helping. You’re doing more than you know, hon.”

I let out a shaky breath, my gaze locked on Mac’s face. So peaceful. Too peaceful.

“Then why isn’t she waking up?”

The nurse squeezes my shoulder. “Give her time. She’s still fighting.”

I nod, pressing my lips together. Fighting.

I just need her to win.

When the hospital called this morning, my heart fucking stopped.

For six weeks, I’ve been living in a nightmare. Six weeks of waiting, of whispering prayers I don’t even believe in, of pressing my lips to her cold, unmoving fingers and begging her to come back to me.

And now she has.

She’s awake.

I drop onto the couch, my elbows digging into my knees, my head hanging low as I try to remember how to fucking breathe.

Chace walks through the door, yawning, completely oblivious to the way my world just cracked wide open. “Mornin’,” he says, flopping down next to me.

“Mornin’…” My voice comes out rough, unsteady.

Chace studies me, his green eyes narrowing. “You off to see Mac?”

I swallow hard. “Just got the call.”

His posture stiffens. “Shit… is she— is she okay?”

“She’s awake.” The words barely make it past my lips, adrenaline and panic colliding in my chest. “They just called—said she’s awake.”

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