I’m still snarling. Still burning from the inside out, fury licking up my spine, blinding me with how fast it replaced grief. My body doesn’t know what to do with the whiplash of almost-death and barely-saved.
And the doctor just stands there—not angry, not even surprised. Just… tired. Like he’s seen this too many times before and doesn’t have the energy left to flinch.
He adjusts his coat with clinical precision. Breathes, one long, measured inhale, as if bracing himself for whatever comes next. Then, finally—softly, almost kindly—he says, “He’s in recovery. You can see him soon.”
And that’s it. That’s the last thread holding me together. I collapse into Cole’s arms. My fists tangle in the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, grounding myself in the cotton and sweat and steadiness of him. And I scream—raw and helpless—until my throat gives out, until there’s nothing left but silence and shaking and the echo of what almost was.
The machines won’t shut up.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
Each one cuts through my skull. I can’t breathe past it. Can’t think. The room smells like antiseptic and iron and whatever hell it took to drag Damian Kade back from the brink.
He’s not awake. He's lying there, wrapped in gauze and bandages and wires, tubes in his arms, oxygen in his nose, his chest rising in slow, careful movements.
I’m halfway on the bed, clinging. One arm around his chest, my head buried against his shoulder, knees on the edge of the mattress like if I crawl any closer I’ll fall straight into him. Cole's sitting behind me, holding my hoodie, ready to yank me back if I lose it again. Shane’s in a wheelchair near the window, eyes red. Mats and Tyler are silent shadows against the wall. Even Viktor's here, standing by the door, eyes on the monitors like he can fight whatever beeps next.
But all I can do is beg. “Please,” I whisper, my voice raw from screaming, throat scraped down to nothing. “Please, Damian…”
There’s no answer. Only the steady rhythm of the machines, cold and relentless in their reply.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
“You can’t leave me,” I murmur, clutching his hand—ice cold and still—but mine, still mine. “You promised, remember? You promised you’d put a ring on my finger. I won that game, you bastard, you don’t get to take it back now.”
I feel tears hit his shoulder. “I need you. I need you to come back. You’re the only one who sees me—you’re the only one who keeps me—”
A sob tears out of my chest, violent and ugly, as my grip tightens around his hand and I press my head harder against his shoulder, desperate to hold on to something that won’t vanish. “Please don’t forget me,” I whisper. “Please, Captain. Come back to me. Just…just come back. Just open your eyes.”
Beep.Beep.Beep.
Each beep slices through the room with mechanical indifference, cold and merciless. They don’t care what I’m feeling. They don’t care that my heart is barely holding together while his lies broken beneath wires and tubes and machines that speak louder than any of us. Every sound reminds me that he’s still here—but only barely. Still fighting. Still not safe.
The others stay silent. I think Cole is crying too. I hear it in the hitch of his breath, the way his shoulders shake against mine. But I don’t look. I can’t. If I see it on his face, I’ll fall apart all over again, and there’s nothing left in me to shatter. I’m already dust.
My limbs won’t listen. My body is locked, frozen in this horrible half-second where everything might still go wrong. Where any shift, any sound, any blink might be the last. I’m trapped in the kind of fear that eats itself, looped in on itself.
All I can do is hold him. He’s warm, but far too still, hooked up to more machines than I can count. I press my hand to his chest, like if I hold on tight enough the universe won’t dare take himfrom me. Maybe he’ll feel it. Maybe he’ll know I’m here. Maybe he’ll stay. I don’t pray. I don’t beg out loud. I just need, raw and wordless and desperate in a way that feels endless.
And then, because nothing else matters, because there is no dignity left, no sense of what’s right or wrong in this room, I climb into the bed. I don’t even think about it, I just move. The mattress dips under my knees, then under my hips, then I’m sliding, trembling, pressing myself along the length of his body until I’m curled against his side.
I fold myself around him, shaping my body to his like it’s the only place I’ve ever belonged. My chest presses carefully against his ribs, terrified of hurting him but needing to feel every rise, every fall, every fragile promise of life beneath my sternum. My arm drapes across his stomach, trembling as it settles, fingers curling into the thin fabric of the hospital gown.
I bury my face in the curve of his shoulder. His skin is warm but unmoving, and I inhale him, trying to memorize the exact temperature of him, the exact scent of him, the exact shape of survival. My leg slips between his, tucking there instinctively, protective and selfish all at once, maybe if I wedge myself deep enough into him, the earth itself won’t dare take him.
Someone behind me gasps sharp, startled, the kind of sound people make when they’re witnessing something too raw to interrupt. Cole whispers a broken, breathy, “Jesus…” like he’s seeing everything I’ve been trying not to say out loud. Shane chokes on a sob, a wet, stuttering sound that cracks somewhere in his chest and spills into the room.
I don’t care. None of it matters.
The machines keep beeping slowly. Too slowly. It's not enough. Never enough. I press my forehead to his neck and breathe him in—sterile air and blood and antiseptic and Damian underneath it all. My chest shakes. “Cap…” My voice fractures. “Damian, please…”
I curl tighter, maybe if I wrap myself around him hard enough, he’ll feel it. He’ll remember. He’ll crawl back into his body because I’m calling him home. “You promised me…” My fingers claw weakly at the blanket over his hip. “You said—win the Cup and I’ll put a ring on your finger.” A shaking inhale leaves me. “You don’t get to break that. You don’t—this is our year, remember? This is ours. We were gonna—god, Damian, we were winning.”
A sob punches its way out of me and I choke on it, pressing my face into his chest, gripping his hospital gown with desperate fingers. “Please come back,” I whisper, barely there. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you. I can’t skate without you watching. I can’t sleep without you breathing next to me. I can’t—I can’t breathe if you don’t—”
My shoulders start to shake, sharp tremors rippling through me in waves I can’t stop. No matter how tightly I try to press myself into him, no matter how still I try to stay, my body betrays me, shivering from the inside out, all adrenaline and terror and too many hours of hoping.
“I’ll be good,” I whisper into his skin, the words muffled by the thin hospital gown, each syllable spilling from my mouth like a promise. “I’ll listen. I’ll behave. I’ll—fuck, I’ll chirp less, I’ll stop arguing with the refs, I’ll stop stealing Cole’s snacks…” My voice breaks, trembling against his unmoving chest. “Just—just wake up. Open your eyes. Look at me. Please.” But there’s no response, no flutter of his lashes, no twitch of his hand, not even the smallest shift in his breath.
