He’s awake and he recognizes me. “Hey,” I say. “I… I was afraid you were unconscious or something.”

“No, just sleeping.” He presses a button on the side of the bed that elevates his head to a sitting position. “Were you worried about me?”

“No,” I say too quickly. “I mean, yes, I was worried you might need a CAT scan.”

But as I say the words, I realize it’s not entirely true. Yes, I was worried that I had screwed up and made the wrong judgment call. I was worried about him in the way that I worry about all of my patients. But that’s not the only reason I was freaking out. He’s right—I was worried about him.

And I don’t entirely understand why.

For a long time, I felt only one emotion for this man. Hatred. I hated him for what he tried to do to me. I hated him for what he did to my friends. I hated him for knocking me up and leaving me to deal with the consequences all by myself. I hated him for not even having the guts to admit what he did and for making me get on the stand during a grueling trial to relive every moment.

But looking at him now, lying in this hospital bed, a bruise blooming on his forehead from the fall he took, his brown eyes staring up at me…

I…

I don’t…

“I need to do a neuro exam.” I clear my throat. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Knock yourself out.”

I run through the exam, making sure his pupils are equal, that he hasn’t become weak on one side of his body, and I make him answer some basic questions to make sure his cognition is intact. It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve interacted with him without any shackles on. If he wanted, he could reach out and wrap his fingers around my neck and squeeze as hard as he could—well, at least until the guard heard us and came running. But somehow, I’m not worried he’s going to do that. Not even a little.

“Did I pass?” he asks me when I back away from him.

“You passed,” I confirm.

“Great.” He nods up at the clock on the wall. “I wanted to get out of here before dinner. It’s taco night.”

I can’t help myself from cracking a smile. “Taco Tuesday?”

“You got it.” He adjusts his position in the bed. “I don’t want to miss taco night. I lope tacos.”

My breath catches in my throat. I lope tacos. When is the last time Shane and I joked around about loping each other? That used to be our thing. I remember the last time I said the words to him: I lope you. Against my will, I feel a sudden rush of affection.