I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion dragging through me like wet concrete.
"Mom's a wreck. You should see her." I gave a humorless huff. "Actually, no. You shouldn't. It would kill you. Which is ironic, considering—"
I couldn't finish.
He was my brother. My little brother. The one I'd carried on my back through the creek behind our house. The one who looked so full of life, back before the pills swallowed him whole.
And now he was here. Broken. And I couldn't fix it.
"I should've tried harder," I whispered. "I should've—"
What? Locked him in a room? Forced him into rehab for the fifth time? Stood over him every second of every day?
I'd done everything I knew how to do.
And it wasn't enough.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
I reached out, my hand hovering over his—pale skin bruised where the IV pierced. I let my fingers rest there—light, barely touching.
"You have to wake up," I said, the words rough. "You hear me? You don't get to do this. You don't get to leave her. Leave me."
The machines answered. Nothing else.
I sat there until the night shift changed, until the coffee went cold, until the window lightened from black to gray and a nurse appeared in the doorway, her face gentle but firm.
"Mr. Holt? Visiting hours start again at eight. You should go home. Get some rest."
Rest.
I almost laughed.
Instead I stood, joints protesting, and looked at Sebastian one more time.
"I'll be back," I told him. "And when you wake up, I'm going to kick your ass."
The ghost of a grin crossed my face. It felt wrong. Foreign.
I turned and walked out before I could change my mind.
The mirror didn't lie.
I looked like hell.
Three days of hospital air had carved shadows beneath my eyes. My stubble had crossed from intentional into unkempt. The tie in my hands—silk, charcoal, perfectly pressed—felt like a prop from someone else's life.
I knotted it anyway. Muscle memory. The loop, the pull, the tighten. A uniform I'd worn so long it fit like skin.
Outside, the city was already awake—horns, engines, the low rumble of a world that didn't stop for grief.
My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
Emma: Good luck today. I know it's going to be hard. I'm here if you need me.
I stared at the message. She was thinking of me. Even now.
She was coming into my world today. Walking through those glass doors, past the security desk, into the elevator that would carry her to a floor full of people who didn't know she was mine.
