Bennett Langston

Her gaze roamed the unfamiliar room, landing on a man sitting beside her bed. He was strikingly handsome, the kind of man who belonged on magazine covers or in movies—sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, and dark hair that looked almost too perfect to be real. His expression was a mixture of concern and relief, as if the sight of her waking up had brought him back from the brink of despair. “Thank God,” he murmured, his voice deep and soothing. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re awake.” She flinched at the touch, her instincts telling her she didn’t know him. Panic surged through her veins. “Where am I? Who are you?” Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His face softened, and he offered her a reassuring smile, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You’re in the hospital,” he said gently. “You were in an accident. Don’t you remember?”