Claim Me Captain! I'm Addicted to You!-Chapter 415: Drifting

Oliver’s POV

The first thing that dragged me back to consciousness wasn’t pain. It was the smell.

Coffee... fresh, and strong.

And something else—something savory, warm, unfamiliar but good enough to make my stomach growl like I hadn’t eaten in days.

My eyelids fluttered open, only to slam shut again when a blade of sunlight sliced straight into my skull.

"Shit..." I hissed through clenched teeth.

I tried again, this time lifting a hand to shield my eyes—And instantly regretted it.

A white-hot stab of pain shot across my upper right body, echoing through every nerve. My other side throbbed in response, a deep, twisting ache that warned me I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Right.

I was shot.

That explained the agony radiating through my torso like a badly tuned instrument.

I sucked in a slow breath, waiting for the pain to settle into something bearable. When I could finally turn my head, carefully, and painfully, I looked toward the noise coming from my left.

Someone was moving around... there’s a kitchenette.

A woman.

Not a nurse.

Not in scrubs.

Cooking.

Cooking... in my room?

Where the hell was I?

My gaze dropped to the IV in my hand, then slowly followed the tube upward. Hospital. Okay. VIP room, judging from the size and the view through the enormous window that was trying to blind me.

Memories came back in fragments.

The gunshot.

The blood.

The fading lights.

And then—

Vicky’s face.

Before I blacked out, she appeared in my mind, clear as day, smiling at me.

The same smile she used to give whenever I walked into the Knight household with Nick and Liam.

Warm. Familiar. Home.

"You’re awake! Thank God!"

Even her voice now.

Soft, frantic, relieved.

I froze. Wait!!!

...No way.

My mind was playing tricks on me again, right? The same way it did when I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I stared at the ceiling and whispered,

"Vicky... Would you be worried if you found out I got shot?"

It wasn’t even a real question—more of a thought slipping out.

"Of course, I was worried sick! I almost fainted!"

My eyes snapped open.

That—

That wasn’t a hallucination.

I turned my head, ignoring the lightning bolt of pain shooting down my neck.

"Vicky?"

She stood there.

Real. Alive.

Beautiful in the morning light.

And looking like she hadn’t slept for a century.

"Oh my God," I breathed. "You’re... actually here. What are you doing here?"

She crossed her arms, marching toward me with that familiar fire in her eyes.

"What else? Isn’t it obvious?" she huffed. "I’m going to take care of you. Look at you. Next time you try to play hero again, I swear I’ll be the one to shoot you!"

Despite the pain, a smile tugged at my lips.

That was Vicky—violent threats wrapped around fierce loyalty. Chaotic, impulsive, unfiltered. And yet the one person I always felt safe with.

"Don’t you have work?" I asked because apparently my brain was malfunctioning.

Her eyes widened. "That’s what you’re asking me? In that condition? Unbelievable!"

She plopped down beside me on the bed.

The mattress dipped—And pain detonated across my torso till my neck.

I groaned, face contorting.

Vicky shot up again like she’d sat on fire, panic spilling all over her.

"Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Do you want water? Should I call the nurse? You look like you’re dying—wait, I mean you almost died—shit, okay, I’m calling the nurse!"

"Vicky—wait—don’t—" I tried to raise my voice so she could hear, but it only made the pain worse. "Stop— I’m—fine—"

But she was already halfway out the door, hair bouncing behind her, practically yelling down the hall for medical help.

I exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

She was here. Not a dream. Not a fading image.

Vicky Knight was here.

Cooking in my room.

Panicking over me.

Taking care of me.

The fear that had been lodged in my chest finally loosened.

I was alive.

I wasn’t alone.

And she...

She came for me.

Even if she’d deny it later, even if she’d wrap it in threats and sarcasm—

She came.

That meant more than the pain ever could.

The nurses came rushing in with a doctor, voices calm but firm as they checked every inch of me. I watched their hands move—pressing, adjusting, inspecting, but my gaze kept drifting away from them.

Drifting to her.

Vicky stood in the corner of the room like she was trying to make herself smaller, hands gripping each other, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She wasn’t crying loudly; she was fighting it, swallowing it down, just standing there with her chest rising and falling too fast.

When her eyes finally met mine, something in my chest tugged painfully.

I mouthed, "Thank you. I’m okay."

She didn’t believe it for a second.

Her bottom lip jutted out in a stubborn pout, and she mouthed back, "I’m sorry," before turning sharply toward the doctor.

"Why is he in so much pain?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her best effort to sound strong.

"That’s normal," the doctor assured her gently. "His anesthesia is wearing off. We’ll give him another dose of pain reliever."

One of the nurses injected something into the IV, and warmth spread beneath my skin, pushing the sharp edges of the pain into something softer, tolerable.

"Sir, if it gets too painful, press this button. But there’s a limit for the day," she explained.

"I understand. Thank you," I said quietly.

They turned to Vicky next, showing her how to raise my bed, how to adjust the height, and which buttons to avoid. She listened like her life depended on it—eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed tight, nodding at every instruction. The moment the medical team left, she moved with determination, sliding the overbed table toward me like she’d been trained for this all her life.

"I... made some porridge," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Chicken and beef. I wasn’t sure which one you’d want, so I made both. And I brought fresh orange juice. So you need to eat even if you don’t like the taste."

She kept her eyes down, fussing with the table, pretending she wasn’t falling apart.

But I saw it—

The way her nose reddened. The way her lashes glistened. The way her breath hitched every few seconds.

She turned toward the kitchenette as if to escape, but I reached out and caught her hand before she could take a single step.

"Vicky..."

She froze completely. Her back stiff, shoulders trembling once.

She wouldn’t look at me. She angled her face away, wiping quickly at her cheeks as if she could erase the evidence.

"Hey, hey..." My voice was soft, coaxing. "Talk to me. Why are you crying?"

The room fell silent except for the steady beep of the monitor beside me. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe for a moment.

Then, in a broken whisper that cracked straight down the center—

"Because I can’t do this anymore..."

Her fingers trembled inside my grasp.

Her shoulders sagged forward.

And the weight behind those words—

It slammed into me harder than any bullet ever could.