Less like death.
More like judgment.
I floated beneath it with Georgia’s hand around mine, Destiny’s confession in my blood, and the ugly truth finally standing where I could not look away.
I had tried to be noble.
I had tried to let the bird fly.
I had tried to build a clean life out of good intentions, a ring, and enough distance to make longing behave.
But dying stripped a man down.
And on the table, in the dark, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, my heart had not called for the woman wearing my ring.
It had gone looking for the girl from the fire.
Waking up felt like drowning through glass.
There was light first.
Too much of it.
White. Blurred. Splintered at the edges like my eyes had forgotten how to make shapes out of the world. Then sound came in, slow and uneven. Beeping. Hissing. A soft mechanical rhythm close to my head. Voices far away, muffled like they were speaking from another room or another life.
My body existed in pieces.
Throat raw.
Chest heavy.
Side on fire.
Arm pinned down by lines and tape.
Mouth dry enough to make breathing feel like swallowing sand.
I tried to move.
Bad idea.
Pain opened under my ribs and tore through me so fast the ceiling went black at the corners.
A hand tightened around mine.
“Dylan?”
Georgia.
I knew her voice.
Sweet. Broken. Too close.
I should have opened my eyes for her.
I should have fought my way up through the drugs and pain because the woman wearing my ring was beside me, terrified, waiting, loving me with both hands wrapped around mine.
But before I saw her face, I heard another voice.
