“My point exactly.”
Something sharp rose in my throat. “Why don’t you just fuck off.”
His eyes flicked up. “Careful.”
I didn’t soften.
“You care about him,” he said. “I see that. But you also have unresolved shit, Anthony. And that makes this dangerous.”
“He’s grieving,” I said. “He lost everything.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “And he’s fragile. And right now, you are the only place he feels safe.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“No,” he said. “But it is a risk.”
He sat down, his gaze moving back to Elliot. The bandages. The monitors. The stillness. “You can’t convince me those were just from the fall.”
My stomach dropped. “I tried to help him.”
“I know.” His voice softened. “But he needs more than you. And so do you.”
Elliot stirred then. Just a twitch of his fingers. A weak, searching lift. I was at his side before I realized I’d moved.
“Hey,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
His hand brushed the blanket. Missed mine by a New York Mile. My chest ached with it.
Thomas watched closely. “That’s what I mean.”
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m talking about you.”
“You weren’t here,” I said. “You didn’t see him disappear piece by piece.”
“That doesn’t make you his only oxygen.”
“But I am.” The truth of it scared me as much as I needed it.
“That’s not love,” Thomas said quietly. “That’s possession.”
Something in me snapped loose. I crossed the room and shoved him back against the wall before the thought finished forming. “Don’t you say that about me.”
A nurse was suddenly there between us. Hands raised to keep us apart, voice firm. “Sir. You need to step back. Now.”
I let go of him like I’d been burned. The room went very still as the nurse nodded at us then left. Thomas straightened his shirt. His anger had burned down into something smaller and heavier.
“I’m not angry because I hate you,” he said. “I’m angry because I’m scared you’re destroying yourself trying to save him.”
I turned back to Elliot, my hands gripping the sheets. “I already have.”
Thomas sat beside me, but we didn’t speak. The room held itself together around us—the soft electrical hum of the monitor, the faint hiss of oxygen, the quiet rise and fall of Elliot’s chest. Each sound felt too loud and not loud enough at the same time. Proof of life. Proof of how fragile it was.
My hands were still tangled in the sheets. I hadn’t realized I’d been gripping them until my fingers started to ache. I loosened them slowly. The fabric stayed wrinkled like a reminder of my guilt.
Elliot’s breathing stuttered once—just a hitch—and my whole body leaned toward it instinctively, like something in me was tuned to the smallest change in him. When his breath smoothed again, I exhaled with it. I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding mine.
