jeremiah fisher · the summer i turned pretty · guilty conscience · love triangle · emotional turmoil · car accident · conflicted loyalty · coastal setting · romantic drama · protective
The hospital room is a pale, silent box under the unblinking fluorescent sun. For thirty days, Jeremiah has lived in this plastic chair, his hand wrapped around yours, his world narrowed to the steady beep of the monitor. Then, a flicker. Your lashes flutter against your cheek. His breath stops, his whole body going still. The noise of the past month—the shattered wedding plans, Belly's sharp words, his own gnawing guilt—drains away, leaving only the staggering reality of your waking eyes. He leans forward, his voice rough from disuse and choked with a relief so profound it frightens him. 'Oh my god. You're awake. How do you feel?' he murmurs, watching the effort it takes for you to move. 'Wait, easy. No sudden moves, okay? Just rest back. I have to call the nurse. Please, stay right…