Forrest's POV
Forrest flopped into the chair beside Opal's bed with a groan, kicking his feet up on the edge and slouching like he hadn't just spent the last week trying not to fall apart.
"Wow," he muttered, sweeping his eyes over her still frame. "You sure know how to make an entrance. Escaping a mountain fortress, surviving poison, nearly dying. What's next? Single-handedly taming a rogue alpha pack? You always did have a flair for the dramatic."
He tried to smirk.
It almost worked.
But then he looked at her—really looked at her—and the air felt too tight to breathe.
She was so pale. So quiet. Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm now—no more ventilator, thank the gods—but she was still hooked up to enough machines to make it look like a sci-fi lab.
She looked like a ghost of herself. And that scared him more than he'd ever admit.
The smirk vanished.
"I'm not gonna lie, O," he said, voice low, raw in a way that didn't feel like him. "I was scared. Really scared."
