I walk to his side and lower myself into the chair like I’ve done a hundred times, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight enough to hurt. Across from me, Emerson sits in the other chair, his posture slouched but his eyes fixed on Ronan’s face. The silence between us stretches out, heavy and raw. Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. Grief and guilt don’t need words to take up space.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, watching for flickers of thought to pass through his expression, and for a second, he looks just as wrecked as I feel. He’s always been the one who holds it together, the one who handles things with that smirk and sharp tongue, but not right now. Not here. The exhaustion is etched deep in the lines on both of our faces.
Then it hits me—how lost he must be.
Emerson never had the stability Ronan and I did. Not really. His family life was chaos before he even had a chance to understand what it meant to feel safe. His mom drank to forget, and his dad made sure there were things worth forgetting. The three of us—we found each other because no one else would’ve kept us from falling apart. We’ve always acted as if we had all the answers, as if we could outsmart the mess we were born into. But sitting here, watching Ronan’s chest rise and fall like a countdown I can’t control, it’s obvious.
None of us are okay.
Not me, Ronan, or Emerson. Not the broken pieces of this family we’ve been trying to tape together with silence and blood.
God help us… if Ronan doesn’t wake up soon, we won’t make it through the fallout. Not as the men we were trying to be.
The thought barely has time to settle—dark and heavy in the back of my mind—when something shifts. A flicker in the corner of my vision. My eyes dart to Ronan’s hand, where his fingers twitch once, barely noticeable, but enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.
“Em,” I whisper, my voice tight with disbelief. “Look.”
Emerson’s head snaps up immediately, following my gaze just as Ronan’s fingers twitch again. Then, slowly—so fucking slowly—his head turns on the pillow, just a fraction, and a low, guttural groan escapes his throat.
The sound is raw, strained, but it’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve heard in days.
“Ronan…” I breathe, standing so fast the chair nearly topples behind me. “Hey, fuck, thank God. Come on, man, open your eyes. You’re good. You’re safe. Just wake up.”
My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to shake free from my chest. I hover near the bed, eyes locked on his face, willing him to do it—to push through, to come back. The silence between his breaths stretches just long enough to hurt before he groans again, this time more annoyed than pained. Then, with a squint and a muttered curse, he blinks.
“Shut the fuck up,” he rasps, his voice gravelly, dry from disuse. “Quit whining like a little bitch.”
Relief crashes into me so hard I laugh—half hysteria, half exhaustion. It’s such a Ronan response, so completely him, that it cuts right through the fear that’s been strangling me for days. His eyes squint tighter as he winces. The light from the overhead fixture is clearly too bright, and he groans again like the very act of waking is giving him a migraine.
But he’s here.
He’s alive.
Ronan blinks a few more times, his face twisting like he’s trying to remember how to move the muscles he hasn’t used in days. The second his eyes fully open and adjust to the light, his features shift into something familiar—annoyance.
“Fuck,” he groans, trying to lift a hand to shield his face from the glare. “Can you two back up? Jesus, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been shot.”
Emerson snorts and leans back in his chair, the tension leaving his shoulders in a wave of silent relief. Ronan’s tone should insult me, but it’s so him—so cocky, so casually irritated—it makes the corners of my mouth twitch. The bastard’s barely conscious and already acting like we’re the inconvenience.
He’s grumbling under his breath about the scratchy sheets, the buzzing from the machine, and the goddamn hospital smell he’ll never get out of his room, as if he hasn’t been unconscious for days and almost bled out in our arms.
“You two hovering like anxious mothers,” he mutters, voice hoarse but gaining strength with every breath. “What, were you holding hands by the bed and whispering prayers? Should’ve known better. I don’t die that easily.”
For a second, we all breathe easier. The familiar rhythm between us settles back into place—sarcasm, insults, normalcy. Or something close to it. It almost feels safe.
Then he freezes.
It’s subtle at first. His mouth stops mid-rant. The hand he had half-raised, lowers slowly to the blanket. His eyes, which moments ago were squinting from the light, go wide—sharp with realization, as all the color drains from his face.
“Ronan?” I ask cautiously, my voice barely above a whisper.
But he isn’t listening. He’s staring at me like I’ve just put another bullet in him. Then the shock drains away, and somethingharder takes its place. His jaw tightens. Nostrils flare. His gaze locks onto mine and holds me there, sharp and unyielding.
It’s a glare.
Not the casual kind.
The kind that cuts through skin and sinks straight into bone.
