Love Jason

Chapter 9

Emily's POV

My heart raced, each beat echoing the frantic pace of my thoughts. I couldn't understand why I felt this way—I barely knew this man. Yet, the mere thought of him not making it sent waves of nausea crashing over me.

"Get a hold of yourself, Emily," I scolded myself, but the worry refused to loosen its grip.

Hours dragged by, each minute stretching into eternity as I waited for any news about the stranger lying in that hospital bed.

Fidgeting nervously, I prayed for a distraction, anything to silence the incessant drumming of my anxious thoughts.

Then, my phone rang—a call from Chris. "Not now, Chris," I muttered, silencing the device as I sank deeper into my cocoon of worry.

Exhausted from the day's events, I closed my eyes, seeking refuge in the oblivion of sleep.

I couldn't tell how long I had drifted in and out of consciousness when a voice broke through the haze, pulling me back to reality.

"Ma'am... Ma'am," the voice persisted, and I blinked blearily, my gaze settling on a beautiful woman in scrubs.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Jada. I attended to your husband," she explained, and for a moment, confusion clouded my mind.

"Husband?" I echoed, struggling to comprehend her words in my drowsy state.

"The man you brought in with a gunshot wound," she clarified, and suddenly, everything clicked into place.

"Yes, my husband," I exclaimed, a surge of adrenaline jolting me awake as I scrambled to maintain the facade.

"How is he? Did he survive?" I demanded, my heart hammering in my chest.

"He lost a lot of blood, but you brought him in just in time," the doctor answered, but her words failed to reassure me.

"Is he... is he alive?" I pressed, relief flooding through me when the doctor nodded, a smile lighting up her face.

"He's alive," she confirmed, and I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

"Thank you, thank you," I gushed, pulling the doctor into an impulsive hug before she gently pulled away.

"I'm sorry, but he's not out of the woods yet. The next 24 hours will be critical," she cautioned, and the smile faltered on my lips.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice trembling with apprehension.

"If he can make it through the next day, he should be fine. But he'll need all the support he can get," the doctor explained, and I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

"Thank you, Doctor," I murmured, sinking into a nearby chair as a wave of emotions threatened to overwhelm me.

"I'll have a nurse show you to your husband's room. He needs you by his side, and we would also need a statement for the police,'' the doctor said.

“Police?” I questioned.

“It is just standard procedure with gunshot victims," the doctor said, and I nodded, steeling myself for the challenges ahead.

"The doctor soon walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

"I don't even know this man, or why he was shot," I muttered to myself as I hastily rose from my seat, making a beeline for the exit.

But just as I reached for the door handle, a nurse intercepted me.

"Ma'am, are you leaving without seeing your husband?" she inquired, her gaze probing.

"Fresh air... Yes, I need some fresh air. It's all just too overwhelming," I replied, scrambling for a plausible excuse.

The nurse eyed me with suspicion before remarking, "I understand, but you should see your husband. He'll need you if he pulls through."

" My Husband... Yes, he will need me," I stammered, feeling a lump form in my throat.

"Come, let me show you to his room," the nurse said with a reassuring smile, and I reluctantly followed her, knowing I had no other option."

she left me in front of his door, I hesitated, my hand hovering uncertainly over the handle. But the voices in my head urged me on, pushing me to confront the unknown.

Steeling myself, I pushed open the door and stepped inside, my eyes immediately drawn to the figure lying motionless on the bed.

Approaching him tentatively, I couldn't help but study his features, each detail etched with pain and exhaustion. But amidst the bruises and bandages, there was a quiet strength that spoke volumes.

And then I saw it—the tattoo, bold and unapologetic, emblazoned across his chest. "Amara."

The name tugged at something deep within me, a faint echo of familiarity dancing at the edges of my consciousness.

But before I could dwell on it further, his voice broke through the silence, a whisper of longing that stirred something within me.

"Amara, you came back," he murmured, his words hanging in the air like a fragile promise.

As he slipped back into unconsciousness, I was left with more questions than answers. But one thing was clear—I couldn't walk away, not when this stranger needed me the most.