He has a concussion, mild by textbook standards. No intracranial bleed. No midline shift. No indication of lasting neurological damage. But the next few days won’t be easy. He’ll be irritable and sensitive to light and sound. The kind of patient who insists he’s fine, even though he clearly isn't.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat and redirect my attention to the chart at the foot of the bed, even though I already know what it says.
They knew where to hit him. They knew where not to. And that precision is worse than chaos.
That realization lodges in my chest in a way that noise never could. If this were chaos, if it were reckless and wild, I could hate it cleanly. Anger would be simple. Loud and productive. This isn’t that. This is calculated harm delivered with intentional restraint. A message carved into bone and skin with enough care to keep him alive.
I step around the bed and rest my hand lightly against his uninjured shoulder. His skin is warm beneath my palm. My little brother looks younger like this. Not the EMT whobarrels into disaster without hesitation. Not the stubborn twenty-five-year-old who argues with me about everything from politics to protein intake. Just the kid who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms and pretend he wasn’t scared.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I adjust my weight to keep it from showing anywhere on my face.
I trace the line of stitches above his eyebrow with my eyes. The cut angles downward. Close to the orbital bone but not close enough to threaten his vision. Whoever did this understood anatomy.
I pull a chair closer and sit beside him, the legs scraping softly against the tile. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room. I lace my fingers together in my lap to keep them from trembling.
They used my brother to reach me. My pulse begins to thud on the inside of my wrist.
The door opens softly behind me. I don’t turn around. I know that rhythm of footsteps. Light but purposeful.
Lila.
She steps into the room with two paper cups in hand, steam curling faintly from one of them. Her curls are pulled into a loose ponytail today, exhaustion tucked beneath eyeliner that remains stubbornly perfect even at the end of a night shift.
“I bribed the nurse for the good tea,” she murmurs, holding one cup toward me.
I accept it without looking away from Ethan. My fingers curl around the warmth, grateful for something solid to hold.
“How is he?” she asks quietly.
“Stable,” I say softly. “Orthopedics set the arm. No internal injuries. Neuro checks are clean.”
She studies my face instead of the monitor. “And you?”
I take a careful sip of tea, letting the heat burn down my throat. “Functional.”
Her mouth tightens into a thin line, but she doesn’t push. She steps closer to the bed and rests her hand lightly on Ethan’s foot through the blanket. “He’s going to be furious when he wakes up.”
“He’s going to apologize,” I correct softly.
Her brows draw together. “For what?”
“For getting pulled into my mess.”
The words leave my mouth before I can filter them.
Lila’s gaze hardens. “Rowan.”
I shake my head once, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Don’t.”
She inhales, then exhales slowly. “Okay.”
She sets her untouched tea on the windowsill and steps back. “I’ll give you space. Call if you need me.”
“I will.”
This time, it isn’t a lie.
When she leaves, the room feels heavier, though I refuse to acknowledge the sensation beyond that single thought. I focus on Ethan’s face. The swelling. The faint crease between his brows even in sleep.
