Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 48

My breath stops. The words hang in the sterile recovery room air like they’re something I could touch if I wasn’t currently experiencing full-body paralysis. Maddie’s eyes are already closing again, the medication pulling her back under. Her hand goes limp in mine, warm and real, and I sit there like someone’s paused my entire existence.

Did I hear that right? Three words, barely whispered, slurred by anesthesia. I love you. Said with such medication-heavy intensity that my heart’s doing acrobatics that definitely aren’t medically advisable.

Maddie’s breathing evens out into sleep. Her face relaxes, tension fading. A strand of dark hair falls across her cheek and I brush it back. My hand’s shaking. Everything’s shaking.

The fluorescent lights hum while I sit here holding the hand of a girl who just confessed her feelings while completely obliterated on anesthesia. Just your standard Tuesday morning in recovery.

A nurse bustles in, all efficiency and clipboard authority. She checks Maddie’s vitals, makes notes, adjusts the IV.

“She’ll probably sleep another hour or so,” the nurse says. “The anesthesia affects everyone differently. Some people are out cold, others talk your ear off about the weirdest things. Last week I had a guy convinced he was a velociraptor.”

“Right.” My voice comes out strangled. “Weird things.”

“She doing okay?” The nurse nods toward our joined hands.

“Yeah. She’s good. Everything’s good.” I’m lying so hard I should get Olympic gold. Nothing is good. Maddie just dropped a feelings bomb that could be real or pharmaceutical delusion, and I’m supposed to just sit here like a functional human.

The nurse finishes her checks and leaves. Like a button’s going to help with the fact that my entire worldview just got demolished by three drugged words.

Time passes. Could be minutes, could be decades. I catalog Maddie’s face—the curve of her jaw, the dark lashes against her cheeks, the small scar above her eyebrow from childhood. Every detail burns itself into my memory.

Maddie stirs. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then finding me. She blinks slowly, more focused now though still operating at half capacity. “Hey,” she mumbles, voice rough. “How long was I out?”

“About an hour.” I force my voice to stay steady, normal, like my entire world hasn’t just tilted sideways and spun off its axis. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone took a power drill to my ankle, which I guess they basically did.” She shifts slightly, winces. “Did the surgery go okay? Everything go according to plan? Did they actually fix things or just make them worse through sheer medical incompetence?”

“The surgeon said it went really well. No complications. You’re going to be fine.” The words taste like ash. Nothing’s fine. Everything’s the opposite of fine. But she doesn’t remember, doesn’t know what she said, and I’m sitting here with this confession burning a hole through my chest while pretending everything’s perfectly normal.

Maddie’s quiet for a moment. Her face scrunches with effort, like she’s trying to grab hold of something just out of reach. My heart rate kicks up several notches. She’s remembering. She has to be remembering. The seconds stretch out into their own kind of torture while I wait for the inevitable question.

“Did I…” She pauses, bites her lip, looking uncertain in a way that makes my chest hurt. “Did I say anything weird while I was waking up? Before? I have this vague memory of talking but I can’t remember what about.”

The universe narrows to this single moment. This choice. I could tell her everything—yes, you said you love me and I’ve been sitting here for the past hour having a complete existential crisis about it, please advise.

Or I could lie. Protect us both from a conversation we’re nowhere near ready to have, that neither of us can handle right now.

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