So I stepped out of the trauma room. The door swung shut behind me, cutting off my view of Ava and the doctors working over her.
Shane was waiting in the hallway.
He didn't say anything. Just stepped forward and pulled me into a hug—the kind of hug that said everything words couldn't. I held on for a second longer than I meant to, let myself lean into the support he was offering.
Then I pulled back. Scrubbed a hand over my face.
"She's going to be okay," Shane said. "Park's the best there is. He'll take care of her."
"I know."
"You saved her life, Brian. You got her out. She's here because of you."
I nodded. Couldn't speak.
The adrenaline was crashing now, leaving nothing but exhaustion and fear and the bone-deep relief of knowing she was alive. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.
Shane guided me to a chair. Pushed me into it. "Sit. Breathe. She's going to be fine."
I sat and waited for the door to open.
CHAPTER 18
Ava
I woketo the sound of machines.
Beeping. Steady and rhythmic. Sixty-two beats per minute, my brain supplied automatically. The soft hiss of oxygen through a nasal cannula. The distant murmur of voices in the hallway, the particular mechanical hum of a hospital at night.
Sounds I knew intimately. Sounds I'd worked alongside for years. But I was hearing them from the wrong side now. From the bed instead of standing at the chart.
My throat burned. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. An IV in my arm, tape pulling at my skin. My lungs ached with that deep, wet heaviness that spoke of inflammation.
And there was a weight on my left hand. Warm. Familiar.
Brian.
I turned my head—slowly, because everything hurt—and found him slumped in the chair beside my bed. His head was bowed, chin resting on his chest, his fingers wrapped around mine like he'd been holding on for hours.
Maybe he had.
He looked terrible. Soot still streaked his hair and darkened the lines around his eyes, making him look older, hollowed out.Dark circles carved deep hollows beneath his eyes, and even in sleep, there was tension in his shoulders, like he was bracing for another blow.
He should be getting rest. Should be letting his body recover from the physical toll of what he'd put himself through.
But he was here. In an uncomfortable hospital chair. Holding my hand like it was keeping him anchored.
I squeezed his fingers.
His head snapped up instantly, eyes wild before they found my face. The relief that washed over his features was so raw, so unguarded, my throat tightened.
"Hey," I managed. My voice came out like sandpaper.
"Hey." He leaned forward, brushing hair from my forehead with a care that made my eyes sting. "How do you feel?"
"Like I inhaled a bonfire."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You did."
