Even in his worst state ever, Damon still manages to smile at me when I get to his hospital room.
And it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.
For a moment, I can’t move. I stand frozen in the doorway, gripping the frame. He’s alive. I knew he was, I was told he was, but seeing him here, eyes open, breathing—I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved in my life.
He looks like hell, though.
His skin is paler than I’ve ever seen it, the usual warmth drained by the obscene amount of blood he lost. His dark hair is a mess against the hospital pillow, unruly curls falling over his forehead. There are wires, tubes, an IV drip stuck into his arm. His thigh is bandaged.
“Hi there,” he says, “are you my nurse? You're hot.”
“I see the blood loss didn’t do any major damage to your sense of hu
