“Magnet,” I snapped. “That doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he insisted, fingers digging harder into his side. “Patch first. Always patch first.”
That was when I saw it. The tremor running through him. Not shock. Something deeper. Something internal and wrong.
“Ambulance,” I said, already pulling my phone out.
He caught my wrist.
“Wait,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”
I looked down at his hand gripping mine. His skin felt cold through the glove.
“This isn’t negotiable,” I said.
He swallowed. “I know.”
And for the first time since I’d known him, Magnet sounded unsure. We waited for the sirens but we heard the bikes first. The rest of the club doubling back now Indie was safe.
He talked while we waited. About nothing. About how the Vandals’ roads were shit. About how he owed Fury twenty quid. About how he should’ve tightened his helmet strap before the ride.
I let him talk. Because when he went quiet, his breathing got worse.
By the time the ambulance arrived, his eyes were glassy and unfocused again. They loaded him carefully, too carefully, like they already knew more than they were saying.
As they closed the doors, he reached for me one last time.
“Did I fuck it up?” he asked. “Is everyone ok?”
“No,” I said, forcing the word steady. “You did everything right. Everyone is ok.”
He nodded, like that was enough.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Accident and Emergency had settled into that strange rhythm it found after the initial rush. Not quiet. Never quiet. But a contained, controlled chaos. Monitors beeped in uneven patterns. Voices overlapped. Nurses, doctors, patients. Each one carrying a different urgency that blended into something constant. I moved between bays, checking obs, reviewing charts, keeping my hands busy even when my mind drifted somewhere it shouldn’t.
Back to him. Always back to him, like he was the only thing I could think about when I wasn’t stitching someone up, or applying pressure to a wound. The moment I stopped, he was all that was there.
“Ambulance inbound.” The call cut through, sharp enough to snap everything into focus.
My head lifted automatically.
“RTC. Motorbike versus car. Five minutes out.”
Something in my chest tightened. I didn’t move straight away. Didn’t breathe either.
Motorbike.
It was stupid. Irrational. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. I’d seen enough come through Accident & Emergency departments over the years to know that. But the word sat wrong. Heavy. Too close.
“High impact,” the voice continued. “Rider thrown from the bike. Possible head and chest injuries. Reduced GCS at scene.”
My stomach dropped.
I forced myself into motion then, stepping into the bay being prepped, pulling gloves on with fingers that didn’t feel entirely like my own.
It’s not him. It couldn’t be.
