I tighten my arm around her waist and pull her closer, burying my face in her hair. I breathe her in. I don’t know how the hell I went so many years without this, without her. I press a kiss to her temple and glance at the clock. 7:22.
Emma is always slow to wake up. I’ve known that since we were young. I could be out and back before she even stirs. Sophia’s bakery opens early. I could bring back her favorite croissants, a caramel macchiato, maybe even a little cinnamon bun for myself.
She deserves that: A warm morning. A slow wake-up. A reminder that she’s safe.
That’s really the least I can do. She deserves more than that. She deserveseverything.
I ease out from under her as gently as I can, tucking the blanket around her body. She barely moves, only sighs and turns onto her side, curling into the spot I left behind. I slip on my hoodie and grab the keys from the entryway table.
It won’t take long. I’ll be back before she wakes up.
I leavethe bakery with a bag full of pastries, her favorite sugary coffee, and a black one for me, balancing it all with one hand as I jog up the front steps of her house.
I’m grinning like an idiot, thinking about the way she’s going to scrunch her nose at me when she sees how many sweets I brought. I imagine her rolling her eyes and stealing bites off my food, acting like she doesn’t want it even though I know she always does.
“Em?” I call out, pushing the door open with my shoulder.
No answer.
I step inside and place the coffees on the table in the center of the living room, the bag of pastries beside them. The room is quiet. The blanket on the couch is crumpled where we slept, where I left her twenty minutes ago.
But Emma isn’t here.
I frown, calling her name again. I check the hallway, the bathroom, the bedroom, the studio.
Nothing.
She’s gone.
A sharp unease grips me, threading through my spine.
I wasn’t gonethatlong.
Where the hell would she go?
I pull out my phone and call her, but the sound of her ringtone stops me in my tracks. Her phone’s still in her purse on the counter and I hear it buzzing faintly, muffled under the leather flap.
She wouldn’t go anywhere without it.
Something is wrong.
I’m about to call Cam when my phone vibrates with a text.
Liv
Emma’s in the hospital. Get here now.
My blood turns to ice. For a second, I feel like I can’t move, my body frozen in place. The words don’t register, like they belong to someone else’s nightmare.
Then everything inside me collapses into fire.
I don’t rememberthe drive, only the way my foot stayed slammed on the gas pedal and the tires screeched around corners. Every second felt like a goddamn eternity. My chest felt like it was caving in on itself.
When I finally barrel through the ER doors, I’m out of breath, shaking wild with panic. The sound of my pulse pounding in my ears is the only thing that registers.
“Emiliana Diaz,” I yell at the nurse sitting behind the front desk. “Where is she?”
She barely gets the room number out before I’m sprinting down the hall, weaving between stretchers and nurses and patients.
