Cold wraps me like a new skin. The shock of it takes my breath away, and for a heartbeat, everything is loud and only the wild, frenzied beating of my heart matters. Then an aftershock rolls across the surface; a jagged column of fire and wood shoots up where the house frames stood, and sparks rain down like furious fireworks.
We break the surface, coughing and swallowing. Cole clamps an arm around me, hauling me to the shallow shore. The water is full of bits of charred timber and acrid bubbles. The heat from the blast still stings my ears. My lungs heave as I suck in air, my ribcage biting. Cole’s face is smeared with blood and smoke. His breath is a ragged sob.
“Ella… are you… okay?” he pants.
I nod against his shoulder, sobbing with relief. “You saved us.”
He presses his forehead to mine, breath ragged and warm in the cold night air.
“No,” he whispers. “We saved each other.”
Behind us, the construction site burns, but we’re alive.
For a long time, we just breathe as the night burns and the sirens wail in the not-yet dawn, a keening that tells the world that the night stole something and might never be the same again.
28
COLE
Waking up feels like dragging myself out of wet concrete. My body is heavy, every breath stiff, ribs protesting even the smallest movement. There’s a ringing in my ears, and for a second, I can’t tell if the darkness behind my eyelids is real or just the aftermath of the explosion.
I force my eyes open.
White ceiling, dim hospital lights, sterile air that stings the back of my throat. I blink until my vision sharpens, and the world settles into place around me. The first thing I do is check my hands, then my legs. They’re intact. Sore as hell, bruised, wrapped in bandages in a few places, but intact.
I’m alive. Thank God.
What about Ella? What happened to her? Is she okay?
I remember pulling us both out of the water after the explosion, but nothing much after that. And then I hear it—the sound that rips through me harder than any blast.
A soft groan, slight shift of blankets, someone adjusting their pillow on the other side of the curtain dividing the room.
Ella.
Even before I can sit up, my heart is already moving toward her.
“Easy,” a nurse murmurs as she steps into view, touching my shoulder before I can push myself upright. “You’ve been in and out for the last few hours. Don’t rush.”
“Ella,” I rasp out. “Is she—“
“She’s okay,” the nurse says gently. “Bruised, exhausted, but okay. She’s been awake on and off. She’s asked about you as well.”
That alone nearly knocks the breath out of me.
I turn toward the curtain, wanting to tear it down, needing to see her face, needing proof she’s really here. But the nurse presses a firm hand to my shoulder.
“Mr. Dawson, you need to stay still,” she warns gently. “You took a good hit to the head, and your oxygen levels were low when they brought you in. Just breathe.”
“I just… I need to see her,” I rasp, the words scraping out of me. “Please.”
The nurse pauses, eyes softening in a way that tells me she’s either a mother, an older sister, or just a damn good human being. She exhales slowly, glancing toward the door as if making sure she won’t get scolded for what she’s about to do.
“Only for a moment,” she whispers.
She reaches for the curtain, fingers hooking into the fabric. Then she drags it back a few inches, just enough for me to see Ella lying on her side, IV in her arm, hair messy against the pillow, breathing slow and steady. Her cheek has a small cut. Her forehead is bruised. But she’s alive. She’s alive and here. Relief slams into my chest so hard I have to grip the bedrails.
Ella shifts a little, like she senses something. The nurse quickly pulls the curtain shut again, giving me a look that’s both stern and soft.
