Trisha의 작품

Emma Watson The sunlight spilled through my bedroom window like a quiet invitation—soft, golden, almost apologetic. It was the first real morning I’d had in what felt like weeks. No gunshots. No screaming. No running. Just the distant hum of the city below and the ticking clock on the wall that reminded me life was still moving forward, whether I was ready for it or not. I sat on the edge of my bed, a mug of half-drunk coffee in my hands. It had gone cold an hour ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. Every muscle in my body ached like I’d been fighting a war. Maybe I had. Maybe we all had. I hadn’t seen Ray since the night at the hospital. He’d texted, called once, but there was an unspoken understanding between us now—space. Time. The fragile truce between healing and heartache. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be healing from. The violence? The fear? Or the part of me that still loved him—deeply, fiercely—and was now trying to reconcile that love with everyt

Ray Maverick The hospital corridor was too quiet. Not the kind of silence that meant peace or rest—but the kind that wrapped around you like fog, heavy and suffocating. I stood with my back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the closed door to Lucas’s room. Inside, he was stable, they’d said. Recovering. But that word didn’t mean what it used to. Recovering implied going back to how things were before. And nothing about this felt like before. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, only that the world felt slower since we’d taken Moreau down. Since Benita crumpled in front of me with that stunned look in her eyes. Since Emma had looked at me like I was both her hero and a man she wasn’t quite sure she recognized. That look haunted me. I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and even if I tried, I knew I wouldn’t. My body was tired, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying it all—every gunshot, every choice, every consequence. The guilt didn’t claw at me. It didn’t n

Emma Watson The hospital lights were far too bright for this hour of the night. I sat beside Lucas’s bed, my hands folded tightly in my lap, eyes fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Machines beeped softly around him, an odd symphony of life and fragility that I couldn’t tune out no matter how hard I tried. There were bruises on his cheek, a gash over his eyebrow, and his arm was wrapped in thick gauze. But he was alive. Breathing. Healing. I’d almost lost him. Again. The nurse had said he was lucky—just missed hitting any major organs. A few inches to the left, and we’d be planning a funeral instead of whispering promises for recovery. I reached forward, gently brushing a piece of hair from his forehead. “You better not die on me, Lucas. I need you. We both do.” His eyelids didn’t flutter. He was still under heavy sedation, the doctors giving his body a chance to catch up to the trauma. The bullet wound in his side had required surgery. Ray had nearly

Ray Maverick I’ve been shot at, betrayed, hunted like an animal, and watched people I trusted turn into monsters. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for what it would feel like to watch Emma get dragged into this war. I should’ve ended it sooner. I should’ve stopped Moreau years ago. And Benita... I should've never let her get close in the first place. Now I was standing in the ruins of what used to be my life. A penthouse that looked like a warzone. A man I once called a brother lying dead at my feet. And Emma—Emma, who still looked at me like I was worth saving. I didn’t deserve it. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it. She stood beside me in the doorway, one hand gently resting on Lucas’s back as he was helped into the waiting ambulance. He was stable now, the paramedics assured us, but he needed surgery. Fast. Emma’s hand dropped from his back as they shut the doors. The flashing red and blue lights bounced off her face, catching the tightness in her jaw

Emma Watson I didn’t let go of Lucas’s hand for hours. Even after the doctors told me he was stable, that his vitals were strong, that there was nothing more to do but wait—I stayed. The monitors beeped steadily beside him, a slow, comforting rhythm that reassured me he was still here. He looked impossibly pale against the white sheets, his face drawn and still. Not at all like the Lucas I knew. The one who flirted shamelessly, who cracked jokes under pressure, who never backed down even when he should have. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, tightening my fingers around his. “This never should’ve happened.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to him or myself. Ray had come and gone, lingering just long enough to squeeze my shoulder before slipping outside. I didn’t blame him. We all needed space in our own way to process what had just happened. I hadn’t had time to really think. Not during the shootout. Not during the blood-soaked rush to the hospital. Not when Benita fell or when

Ray Maverick The moment I stepped into the hospital corridor, the weight of everything that had happened slammed into my chest. The hallway buzzed with the low murmur of nurses and the occasional metallic clatter of a medical cart, but all I could focus on was the sterile white walls and the scent of antiseptic burning in my nostrils. My shirt was still stained with blood—Lucas’s blood—and my knuckles throbbed from the fight with Moreau. But none of that mattered now. Not compared to the hollow ache spreading through my chest. Lucas was in surgery. That bullet had gone in deep, and the doctors weren’t sure how bad the internal damage was. All I knew was that he’d been conscious when we got here, cracking jokes like he wasn’t bleeding out all over the backseat of my car. But the moment the ER doors swallowed him whole, I’d felt something inside me unravel. I’d nearly lost him. Again. Emma sat on one of the hard plastic chairs across from me, her hands clutched in her lap. She