TRAGICALLY BROKEN: The Broken Series (Damaged, Book 1) (RE-IMAGINED & EXTENDED)

THIRTEEN

HANNAH

It's shortly after dinner, and the doctor finally gave me permission to leave. Although it hasn't been long, I've come to realize just how much of the sweet comforts of home I've taken for granted. My bed. My room. My things. Time can't move fast enough for me to get back to familiar surroundings.

While my parents are at the nurses' station, signing my release papers, I gather the few things they brought for me and place them back into my bag. I'm reaching for my brush when there's a light knock on the door.

I immediately go rigid—irrationally worried Matt has returned to surprise me again. But after what he did, I logically know there's no way he'd show his face here.

A tentative "Hannah?" floats toward me, and my heart loses a beat, taken by the familiar voice.

I'm glad I got to meet you, Hannah.

My hand freezes mid-air when I see deep brown eyes and an uncertain smile find me through the open door.

I forget to breathe.

"Did I come at a bad time?"

I drop the brush on the bed. "What are you doing here?" I wince, realizing that came out harsher than I expected. Not wanting him to turn and leave, I try to soften my tone and push down the humiliation that's picking away at the edges of my already frayed confidence. "I thought you didn't want to see me."

He shoves his fingers through his hair with an uncharacteristic nervousness radiating off of him.

"I wasn't going to, but—" He exhales sharply, holding me suspended in his bottomless eyes. "How are you doing?" he deflects.

"I'm as good as can be expected."

"That's good, I guess." His eyes flick around the room as the air gets stifled with an uncomfortable silence. He shoves his hands into his pockets and drops his gaze, getting lost in the tiles of the floor. The small reprieve grants me a moment to look him over.

The red button-down shirt he's wearing hangs, untucked, over the dark, distressed jeans sitting low on his hips. Fitting snugly over his expansive chest, it does little to hide the obvious strength barely contained in the thin fabric. And with the top two buttons undone, I get a tiny reminder of the warm, smooth skin my fingers held onto the night before.

The cuffs of the sleeves are rolled to the top of his forearms, giving another glimpse at the muscle beneath. Though last night, I must have been too far gone to notice the large tattoo on his left arm because I don't remember seeing it before. It's peeking out from beneath the fold.

I'm fixated on the detailed black lines when I feel the heat of his attention on me. He clears his throat, and my eyes snap up to meet his. With his head still tipped downward, he peers up through his insanely long lashes and that same unruly strand of hair that falls over his focused eyes. "If this is too weird, I can go."

I hurriedly shake my head. "No, I'm glad you came. I want to thank you. For everything. But words don't seem to be enough, do they?"

There are so few words in the English language capable of describing genuine emotion. Even words of gratitude are more than lacking. It's during moments like this that I wish they did exist because I've never needed the most perfect, meaningful words more than I do right now.

"You don't have to thank me. I'm just glad I was there." He visibly swallows, stepping closer, and I instantly warm from head to toe. My breathing stutters nervously when I see the way he looks at me. It's genuine. Honest. The concern is almost overwhelming.

"Me too," I admit softly.

He brings up his head and looks me straight in the eyes, and I feel my heart flip-flop in my chest.