“Ella.” His voice is low, rough, grounding. “Baby, hey, look at me.”
I try. I really do, but the second I meet his eyes, everything breaks.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, words spilling fast, frantic, uncontrollable. “I should’ve— I should’ve stopped her— I should’ve seen the horse— I— Cole, I messed up, I messed up, I—“
My chest seizes, lungs refusing to move, hands trembling violently, knees weakening until he catches me, arms sliding around me with such sureness it undoes the very last of my composure.
“Hey, hey—breathe,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine as if he can pull my fear out just by touching me. “Shiloh, listen to me. Listen. Breathe in slow. Come on. In. Out. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
I grip his shirt so tightly my knuckles ache.
“I let her fall,” I whisper, voice breaking. “How could I let her fall? I’m supposed to protect her. I’m supposed to—“
“Stop.” He cups the side of my face, forcing me gently but firmly to meet his eyes. “You didn’t let anything happen. Horses panic. Kids fall. Riders fall. That’s the life of a rider. It’s normal. You know this.”
“But she was hurt,” I insist, voice barely audible.
“And she’s going to be okay,” he assures me, but I don’t believe him.
He’s about to say more when the doors to the imaging wing slide open and a woman in scrubs steps out, scanning the waiting room.
“Family of Aria Dawson?”
Cole and I both answer at the same time. “Yes.”
The doctor walks toward us, holding a tablet, her expression calm but focused.
“Aria is doing well,” she begins gently. “She’s stable and talking away.”
My lungs burn with relief, but I can’t breathe yet—not until I know everything.
“What about her wrist?” Cole asks, voice steady even though I can feel the tension rolling off him.
The doctor turns the tablet toward us, showing the X-ray. “She has a small hairline fracture right here.” She taps the faint white line on the image. “It’s minimal. Clean. No displacement.”
I swallow hard, tears gathering behind my eyes.
“She’ll need a brace for a couple of weeks,” the doctor continues, “but she won’t need a cast. And she’ll heal completely.”
My knees weaken, and Cole’s hand comes to the small of my back, steadying me.
“She was worried she’d done something really bad,” the doctor adds with a small smile. “But her fall was controlled enough that the injury is very manageable. She must have a very good teacher.”
“She does,” Cole affirms, gazing at me.
I cover my mouth with my hand as a sob breaks loose—half relief, half guilt.
The doctor’s smile softens. “You can go in and see her now. She’s asking for you.”
I nod, choking on a thank-you, but when I try to step forward, my body betrays me—chest tightening all over again, breath stalling, vision tunneling for a split second.
Cole catches my arm, leaning close, his mouth near my ear. “Hey… look at me. She’s okay. She’s right there. You did good.”
I exhale shakily, grounding myself in the sound of his voice.
The doctor steps aside, gesturing toward the hallway. “Room five. Take your time.”
Cole squeezes my hand, and together we walk toward Aria, my heart still raw, relief still shaky, but now guided forward by the certainty that she’s safe.
