The sterile white walls of the hospital seemed to close in on me as I sat beside Daemon's bed, my fingers gripping the edge of the chair. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound that filled the room, a quiet reassurance that he was still there, still alive. I glanced at his face, peaceful in a way I had never seen before. It was strange to see him like this—so still, so vulnerable.
For the first time, Daemon didn't look cold or untouchable. His usual hard expression was gone, replaced by a calm, almost serene look. His sharp jawline was relaxed, the tension that usually gripped his features absent. The lines on his forehead, the ones that always deepened when he looked at me with disapproval, had softened. His dark hair, slightly tousled from the accident, framed his face, and despite the paleness of his skin, he looked… almost unreal, as if he were a statue carved out of marble, untouched by the hardness that had always defined him.
I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing lightly against his hand, testing the warmth of his skin. It was strange to touch him, to feel that he was real, that he was here. The contact was so small, so insignificant, yet it sent a wave of emotion crashing over me. I wasn't used to touching Daemon. In all the years we had lived together, there had been an invisible barrier between us, a barrier that seemed even stronger than steel. But now, in this moment, that barrier felt thinner, like it was starting to crack.
My eyes lingered on his face, taking in the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He looked so different like this. Without the cold, detached mask he usually wore, he seemed almost approachable, almost like the brother I had always wanted him to be. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him like this, so calm, so peaceful. And for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine that maybe, when he woke up, things might be different.
But deep down, I knew better.
---
The days after the accident blurred together in a haze of worry and exhaustion. I stayed by Daemon's side, barely leaving the hospital. Our parents had come briefly, but true to form, their business meetings took precedence, and they left after making sure Daemon was stable. It didn't surprise me. I had long since learned that we were little more than afterthoughts to them, chess pieces in the larger game of their careers.
So it was just me. Just me and Daemon, in the quiet, sterile hospital room.
I ignored my own injuries, the dull ache in my head and the occasional flashes of dizziness, focusing instead on Daemon. He needed me now, and that was all that mattered. I made sure the nurses knew exactly what medications he needed, and I fussed over every little detail—whether his blankets were tucked in properly, whether he was comfortable. It was easier to focus on taking care of him than to think about everything else—about how close I had come to losing him, about the way my chest tightened every time I thought about that night.
Every day, I was there. I wiped his forehead with a cool cloth when he started to sweat, adjusted the pillows when he looked uncomfortable, even though he couldn't tell me if he was. And every day, I found myself watching him, my eyes tracing the lines of his face, searching for some sign that he was waking up. But Daemon remained still, his body relaxed in a way that felt foreign to me. It was unnerving, this version of Daemon—so different from the sharp, cutting presence I had grown up with.
In these quiet moments, I would gently brush his hair back from his forehead, my fingers lingering longer than they should. I would find myself wondering what he was dreaming about, if he was aware of how much had changed since the accident. If he knew I was here, looking after him, caring for him in a way I had never been able to before.
And in those moments, when I was close enough to see the soft curve of his lips or the gentle flutter of his eyelashes, I felt something shift inside me. He was still Daemon, still the brother who had built walls so high I had never been able to climb them. But there was something different now, something I couldn't quite put into words.
---
After what felt like an eternity, Daemon finally woke up.
It was slow at first—just a fluttering of his eyelids, a small movement of his fingers. I leaned forward, my heart pounding in my chest as I watched him stir, hope blooming in my chest. His eyes opened, blinking slowly as if adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lights. For a moment, he looked confused, his gaze drifting around the room before finally landing on me.
"Daemon," I whispered, my voice soft, hesitant.
He blinked again, his expression still dazed, but there was recognition in his eyes. He knew me. And for a brief moment, I thought I saw something else—a flicker of emotion, of gratitude maybe—but it disappeared as quickly as it came. His gaze hardened, and the familiar wall slid back into place.
"What… happened?" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
"You were in a car accident," I explained, my voice quiet as I leaned in closer, my hand instinctively reaching for his. "You've been in the hospital for a few days. But you're going to be okay."
He didn't respond right away, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling, his brow furrowing slightly as if he was trying to piece everything together. The distance between us felt palpable again, even though I was sitting right beside him.
I squeezed his hand gently, hoping to ground him, to let him know I was here. "I've been looking after you," I said softly. "You don't have to worry about anything."
Daemon's gaze shifted to me, his expression unreadable. "You should take care of yourself," he muttered, his voice still weak. "I don't need anyone looking after me."
I bit my lip, the familiar sting of his cold words hitting me, but I didn't let go of his hand. "I'm fine," I said quietly. "I wanted to be here."
Daemon didn't respond, his eyes closing again as if the effort of speaking was too much. But his hand didn't pull away from mine. He let me stay, let me hold on, even though he didn't say it. There was something unspoken in the air between us, a tension that wasn't as sharp as it used to be. It was softer now, more fragile.
And as the days passed, I continued to look after him. I brought him his meals, adjusted his pillows, and kept the room quiet so he could rest. Daemon didn't thank me, and he didn't apologize for the way he had always treated me. But he didn't push me away either. He let me stay by his side, his silence less biting than it had been before.
I could feel it in the small moments, the way his eyes lingered on me for just a second longer than they used to, the way he didn't flinch when our hands brushed. Daemon's walls were still there, still high and impenetrable, but there were cracks now. Tiny, almost imperceptible cracks that I hadn't noticed before.
And for the first time, I felt like I was starting to see the Daemon behind those walls—the one he kept hidden, even from himself.