"Do you have any idea," he said quietly, "what it was like to watch you walk through that door?"
I didn't answer. Didn't look up from Stone's sleeping form.
"I've treated trauma patients for years. I've seen people make reckless decisions, stupid decisions, because they thought they knew better than the medical professionals trying to save them." Neal's voice was tight. Controlled. "I have never—never—been as terrified as I was in that moment."
"I know."
"Do you?" He crouched down, forcing himself into my line of sight. His eyes were red-rimmed. Exhausted. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you walked into that roomfully prepared to die. Like saving him mattered more than your own survival."
"It wasn't about dying."
"Then what was it about?"
I finally looked at him. At this man who had spent weeks trying to heal Stone from the outside, who had watched me deteriorate alongside his patient, who had loved me enough to let me walk into danger even when every instinct screamed at him to stop me.
"It was about not letting fear win," I said. "His fear. My fear. Everyone's fear. Stone was dying because he was too scared to let anyone in. And I was scared too—scared of losing him, scared of getting hurt, scared of what would happen if I tried and failed." I reached out, touched Neal's face. "But fear was killing him. And I couldn't let it kill me too."
Neal closed his eyes. Leaned into my touch.
"You could have died," he whispered.
"I didn't."
"You could have." His voice cracked. "And I would have had to live with that. With knowing I helped you do it. That I opened the door and let you—"
"Neal." I cupped his face in both hands. Made him look at me. "I'm here. I'm alive. Stone is alive. The bond completed. It worked."
"This time."
"Yes. This time." I held his gaze. "And if there's a next time—if someone else needs me to take a risk like that—I'll probably do it again. Because that's who I am. That's who you fell in love with."
Something shifted in his expression. The fury didn't disappear, but it softened. Made room for something else.
"I hate that you're right," he said.
"I know."
He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead against mine.
"Don't make a habit of it," he murmured. "Please."
"I'll try."
James's reaction was louder.
He found me in the corridor outside Stone's room during one of my brief breaks—bathroom, water, a few minutes of standing upright to remind my legs they still worked. I felt him coming through the bond before I saw him. A storm of emotion so intense it made my head pound.
"You promised," he said. No preamble. No greeting. Just those two words, sharp as knives.
"I promised to call for help if I needed it."
"And did you? Call for help?"
I thought about Stone's teeth on my throat. The moment when I'd genuinely believed I was about to die.
"There wasn't time."
"Bullshit." James stepped closer. His eyes were red. His hands were shaking. "There was time. You just didn't take it. You decided to handle it yourself, like you always do, like the rest of us don't matter—"
