Then I kick the bike over and head for the hospital, Frankie's words echoing. Make sure he stays that way.
By the time I hit Sloane's favorite burger place, my patience is shot. I order her usual; double cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, the chocolate cake she pretends she doesn't crave, and a Coke. Grab myself a sandwich so she doesn't yell at me for watching her eat.
The bag is warm and greasy in my hand when I step into the hospital lobby. I tuck my helmet under the front desk counter where they know me by now, and clip on a visitor's badge. So routine I could do it in my sleep.
The smell hits first. Antiseptic, coffee, that faint copper tang that never quite leaves. I hate hospitals. I hate what they did to me once upon a time, and what they do to her now; stealingpieces of her day, leaving her heavy-eyed and quiet. But she lights up in these halls in a way she doesn't anywhere else, and I'm not stupid enough to get between her and the thing that makes her feel like herself.
So I walk these halls and deal with it. The nurse's station on her floor is a blur of scrubs and beeping monitors. One of her coworkers spots me and smirks.
"Your husband's here," she calls toward the med room.
The word husband still hits me in the ribs, even after two years. Sloane steps out a second later, chart in hand, pen tucked behind her ear. Her hair is in a messy braid, wisps escaping around her face. Smudge of ink on her wrist. Scrubs a size too big, but I know the shape underneath—the curve of her waist, the glimpse of collarbone at the neckline that the fabric can't quite hide.
Fuck. She looks good.
Her eyes find mine and soften. Just a fraction. But I see it.
"Hey," she says. Tired but warm. My lungs unlock.
"Hey, nurse. I brought bribery." That gets an actual smile. I hold up the bag. "Burger. Fries. Chocolate cake."
Her eyes almost roll back. "Marrying you was an excellent life choice."
"Yeah. It was."
I follow her into the cramped staff break room. There's a table, sad couch, microwave that has seen some shit, bulletin board full of passive-aggressive notes about labeling leftovers.
She scribbles a Post-it on the way in and sticks it to the break room door, then drops into a chair with the kind of boneless plop that tells me she's running on fumes.
"Says I'm on my thirty," she explains. "If they knock before my break's over, someone's coding. Otherwise they can wait."
I start unwrapping food. She tears into the burger like she hasn't eaten in a week.
"I knew you skipped breakfast," I say.
Her mouth is full. She just gives me a look that says obviously, mind your business.
"This helps," she says around another bite. "Thank you."
"Always gonna feed you, sweetheart. Even when you're annoying as shit and ignoring my basic needs."
She snorts, dunking a fry in ketchup. "You don't have emotional needs. You have a hard-on and thoughts, like, ninety percent of the time."
"That is a basic need. It's called physical affection. Look it up."
She huffs, but there's a twist of her lips.
I wait until she's halfway through the burger before I say, "We still can't find Chuck."
Her whole body goes a notch stiffer. She keeps eating. But the rhythm changes. It's more mechanical, less present.
"Maybe he's just… gone," she says in a cool voice.
"Maybe. Or maybe he's hiding. Either way, we'll find him."
She nods, noncommittal. She polishes off the burger, then pulls the cake toward her and digs in like a woman on a mission.
I lean forward. "Hold still."
