I’m the one who found him bleeding out on that hallway floor and left Aria dead beside him.
I’m the one who held pressure on wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding while Jace screamed for Cal to bring the med kit, while Charles coordinated extraction, while Marcus and the team cleared the rest of the building.
I’m the one who sobbed his name over and over like repetition could keep him alive.
I’m the one who watched his eyes go unfocused and empty, watched him stop fighting, watched him let go.
I’m the one who refused to let him.
The boys came in this morning with drawings. Pictures of motorcycles with elaborate modifications that only five-year-olds could dream up—flame decals and rocket boosters and wings, because why shouldn’t motorcycles fly?
They told Silas all about Martha’s Vineyard. About Maria’s estate, the beach, and the boats. About the ice cream they ateand the games they played. They narrated their entire adventure like he could hear them, like their voices could pull him back from wherever he’s gone.
Maybe they can.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t sent them home, even though they should be in their own beds, even though this is too much for children to witness.
Or maybe I’m just selfish. Maybe I need them here as much as they need to be here. Need their presence to remind me what we’re fighting for. Need their voices to fill the silence that threatens to swallow me whole.
I’m sitting in the chair I’ve claimed as mine, pulled up close to Silas’s bedside. Close enough that I can hold his hand, can feel the warmth of his skin even though he’s not really here.
My head is down on the bed beside our joined hands, exhaustion pulling at me like an undertow. I haven’t really slept since the rescue. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes I see him on that floor, see the blood, see the light leaving his eyes.
The monitors beep their steady rhythm. Heartbeat. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. All stable. All normal.
All of it is meaningless if he doesn’t wake up.
“Please,” I whisper into the blanket, so quiet that even Jace and Cal won’t hear. “Please come back to me. The boys need you. I need you. We all need you, Silas. Please.”
Nothing.
Just the beep of monitors and the soft sound of breathing—mine, the boys’, Cal’s slight wheeze from the broken rib he won’t admit is still bothering him.
I’m so tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. Tired of?—
His fingers squeeze around mine.
It’s small. Barely there. But I feel it.
My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks. I stare at our joined hands, waiting, hoping I didn’t imagine it?—
There. Again. Stronger this time. A definite squeeze.
“Silas?” My voice comes out rough, broken. “Silas, can you hear me?”
His eyelids flutter. Once. Twice. Then they open—just slightly, just enough for me to see a sliver of storm-gray.
“Silas.” His name is a prayer, a plea, a promise all at once.
His eyes focus on me, and even though they’re hazy with pain and medication, I can see him in there. Can see recognition. Can seeSilas.
His lips move. It takes him two tries to get the words out, his voice so raspy it’s barely recognizable.
“You just couldn’t stay away, could you, firefly?”
The sob that tears out of me is ugly and loud and completely involuntary. I’m laughing and crying at the same time, my free hand covering my mouth, trying to keep it together and failing spectacularly.
“You asshole,” I manage through the tears. “You absolute asshole. You’ve been unconscious for four days, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
