But the start of him finally letting go of the guilt that's been eating him alive.
He exhales shakily and leans his forehead against mine.
"I don't deserve you," he whispers.
"Yes, you do." I whisper back, brushing his hair gently. "We deserve each other. And Sam deserves a brother who loves her like you do — not one who punishes himself for things no one could've controlled."
His fingers curl into my shirt again, but this time the grip isn't desperation — it's grounding.
And when he finally murmurs, "Okay... I'm going to try to stop blaming myself,"
I believe him.
Even if it's going to take time.
Awhile later, we heard a soft knock on the door.
Zach and I pull apart instantly, both standing as Dr. Wilcott steps inside, a slim clipboard tucked under her arm. Her scrubsare wrinkled, her hair pulled back messily — but her expression is calm.
I search her face for panic, dread, anything that signals bad news—but there's nothing.
Just that composed doctor look that makes my lungs loosen a little.
"Dr. Wilcott, thank God you're here," Zach says the second she steps inside.
He moves toward her automatically, like every muscle in him is pulled tight. His voice sounds stretched thin. "Can you please tell us what's going on with my sister? I—I really can't... keep waiting."
I step beside him and slip my hand into his.
His fingers twitch, then wrap around mine.
I squeeze his hand just enough for him to feel it.
Breathe, babe.
Let her talk.
His chest rises with a shaky inhale. The tension in his shoulders eases by barely a millimeter, the deep line between his brows softening as he releases that breath and gives me a small nod.
Zach's grip tightens around my hand again — not violently, just instinctively — like he's bracing.
"The CT scan shows a very small pocket of air outside the bowel wall," she explains, tapping her pen lightly against the diagram clipped to her board. "This is what we call a micro-perforation. It means there's been a tiny leak, but it's contained."
Zach's entire body stiffens beside me. His jaw locks, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. I can feel the fear spike through him, sharp and immediate.
Dr. Wilcott continues before that fear can spiral.
"The important thing is that it'ssmalland it'slocalized. There's no free air flooding the abdomen, no signs of widespread contamination. She does not need surgery right now."
Zach releases a breath he's clearly been holding for minutes — maybe hours — and it shudders out of him. One hand lifts to his forehead, rubbing as though he's trying to steady his own spinning thoughts, the lines of tension finally, finally loosening from his face.
"So... what does this mean? Will she be okay?"
"We're going to treat it aggressively with IV antibiotics, keep her NPO for bowel rest, and monitor her closely. Most micro-perforations heal on their own when we catch them this early." Dr. Wilcott explains.
"We may repeat the CT in twenty-four to forty-eight to make sure the perforation is stabilizing. If everything goes the way we expect, Sam can likely be discharged next week."
My jaw drops. Relief slams into me so hard my knees weaken.
