He’s in the hospital.
Catalina
He’s having seizures, Amelia.
Catalina
If you care about him, get here now.
My knees buckle, and the world tilts sideways, bile scraping my throat.
A seizure.
It’s more than a concussion. It’s more than bruises. Something even worse.
“Amelia?” June’s cautious voice drifts from the counter. "What’s going on?”
My mouth feels dry, and my voice is barely audible. “Maverick.”
That’s all I can manage before I’m ripping off my gloves, ink staining my palms. My chest caves inward, every beat of my heart too loud, echoing like it might shatter my ribs.
“June, please, I need you to drive me. To the hospital. Now.”
She doesn’t ask questions as she grabs her keys, her face pale, and heads for the door.
I snatch my bag from the stool, fingers instinctively brushing over the spot on my left hand where the emerald-cut diamond used to be. My chest tightens when I see it empty.
I stumble past June, the TV still blaring behind me in the store—commentators filling the silence with pointless chatter, replays of the hit showing from every angle. I can’t look.
The night air hits me like a slap, cool and sharp against my tear-warm skin. My breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps as June practically drags me to her car.
I slump into the passenger seat as June speeds off, tires squealing on the pavement. Neon signs and traffic lights blur together as we rush through the city.
My forehead presses against the cold glass, tears slipping quickly down my cheeks. My hand grips my bare finger, clutching at the nothing there, whispering a prayer I don’t know how to say out loud.
Please stay, Mav. Please stay long enough for me to tell you I love you.
The ride feels like it lasts forever, even though June drives like a bat out of hell. I don’t breathe the entire time, my fingers digging crescents into the seatbelt, heart pounding with every red light we run.
When she screeches to a stop outside the emergency entrance, I fumble with the door before the car’s even in park. “Thanks for the ride,” I choke out, voice barely there. June squeezes my wrist once, her eyes wide and scared, but I don’t wait for more. I’m already running.
The automatic doors whoosh open, spilling me into bright lights. My boots squeak against the linoleum as I rush to the front desk. A nurse looks up, eyebrows raised.
“M-Maverick Hayes,” I stammer, my voice catching on his name. “ I-I’m his…” The word sticks in my throat. My chest locks. “I’m his wife.”
The syllables wobble, fragile, but I push them out.
The nurse barely glances at the screen before nodding. “Third floor, neuro unit. Room 317. Take the elevator on your right.”
I don’t wait for more. I run.
The elevator ride feels like torture, with the numbers crawling slowly as I twist my bare fingers together and press my palms against the cold steel wall. By the time the doors open, my chest is burning, and each step down the hallway feels heavy with the weight of what I’ll find.
His door is slightly ajar. I push it open, my breath catching.
Maverick lies in a hospital bed, his broad chest rising and falling unevenly, the blanket pulled up to his waist. His face is pale against the white pillow, lips cracked, blonde hair damp with sweat at his temple. His eyes are closed.
Is he sleeping or unconscious, I can’t tell.
