I tighten my hold on Lola just a little more, one hand sliding up her back, fingers pressing into her sweater. All that matters is the way she fits against me and the fact she trusted me enough to fall apart right here.
“Hey,” I murmur, my mouth close to her hair, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. You hear me? You’re not doing this alone.”
She nods against my chest, breath hitching, fingers still twisted in my shirt. We stay like that for a minute, maybe two—a long enough time for the shaking to ease a little, long enough for her to pull herself together and breathe without breaking down again.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red, lashes clumped, face blotchy. She’s still beautiful. Still my Bells. Just scared as hell.
I don’t say anything; I move.
I grab her bag and toss the remaining items off the table into it. I even pick up the highlighter from the floor. None of it is neat or careful. I don’t care about order right now. I sling the bag over my shoulder, and gently guide her toward the door with my free hand at her back.
“Come on,” I say.
She pauses before we reach the exit and looks up at me. Her eyes are wide and scared, searching my face as if she’s bracing for me to disappear.
“Jace…” Her voice cracks on my name.
“We’ll go see your dad,” I say firmly, leaving no room for doubt. “We’ll hear what the doctors have to say.”
Her brow furrows, disbelief flickering through the fear. “You’re coming with me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I respond with zero hesitation.
She doesn’t argue, question it, or resist. She just nods and allows me to guide her.
And that tells me everything about how bad this really is.
Because Bells always argues.
I push the door open and lead her out, already planning the quickest way to her car and mentally ready to handle whatever comes next. My cock, my attitude, and my usual bullshit all get pushed aside. None of that matters.
What matters is the girl next to me, trembling but moving, trusting me enough to keep walking anyway.
And there’s no way I’m going to let her do this alone.
I pull her out of the library and into the afternoon air, the door swinging shut behind us. The sun’s too bright. The world’s too loud. She doesn’t say a word the entire way across the lot, simply walks beside me on autopilot.
I stop at the car and turn to her. “Give me your keys. You can’t drive like this.”
Lola hesitates for half a second, her eyes glassy, then nods. Her fingers shake as I take the keys from her. Her breath is ragged and shallow, her chest rising too quickly, panic creeping back in.
I walk over and open the passenger side door for her, holding it open as she gets in.
I circle back to the driver’s side, toss the bag onto the back seat, and slide in, adjusting the seat for my legs. Muscle memory takes over. Belt on. Key in.
The car hums to life.
I glance at her. She’s staring straight ahead; hands folded in her lap. Tears sit on her lashes behind her glasses. I reach across without thinking and place my hand over hers.
“I’ve got you,” I say again, quieter now.
She nods once.
I pull out of the lot and head onto the road, jaw clenched, focus sharp.
The hospital is twenty minutes away, but each second seems slow and heavy. The silence in the car is deafening—not the kind that needs fixing, but the kind that weighs down on you and makes you afraid to breathe wrong. She curls against the door, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around herself tightly. Her forehead rests against the window. I can’t see her face, but I don’t need to; I know she’s crying again.
Not knowing what to say, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
