I hesitate, torn between the practical need to clean up and the visceral fear of being away when news comes, good or bad.
“Go,” Shaylin urges, her hand squeezing my shoulder.“My son wouldn’t want you sitting here covered in his blood for hours.”
The truth of her words penetrates my exhaustion-fogged brain.She’s right, Zach would hate seeing me like this, would insist I take care of myself.And practically speaking, I can’t help him if I collapse from exhaustion.
“All right,” I concede, rising unsteadily to my feet.“But I’ll be quick.”
Tiana nods, handing me a small duffel bag.“Bathroom’s down the hall.I’ll come with you.”
As we walk, I notice the corridor has filled with more club members, some I recognize, others I don’t.They line the walls, a silent honor guard of leather and denim, their faces grim with shared concern.A few nod as I pass, respect in their eyes that I’m not sure I’ve earned.
“They’re here for him,” Tiana explains quietly, seeing my confusion.“But also for you.”
“For me?”I repeat, the words not quite computing through my exhaustion.
She stops, turning to face me directly.“Xavier, you’re family now.You understand that, right?What Zach did, claiming you publicly, bringing you into the fold, that means something to us.It means everything.”
The weight of her words settles over me, a responsibility and a comfort all at once.Family.The concept feels both foreign and intensely familiar, like coming home to a place I’ve never been but somehow recognize.
“I love him,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.“I didn’t even realize how much until I saw him bleeding out in front of me.”
Tiana’s eyes soften, her hand finding mine in a brief squeeze.“He knows,” she assures me.“Trust me, he knows.”
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the man who looks back at me.Blood streaks my face where I must have wiped sweat away with crimson hands.My eyes are wild, haunted by what they’ve witnessed.I look like I’ve been through a war, which, in many ways, I have.
I strip mechanically, stuffing the ruined clothes into the biohazard bin.The water runs red as I scrub my hands, watching Zach’s blood swirl down the drain.It feels wrong somehow, like I’m washing away something precious, something that connected us.But I force myself to continue, to be thorough, to prepare myself for whatever comes next.
The clean clothes Tiana brought, jeans and a simple black t-shirt, feel like armor as I pull them on.I splash water on my face one last time, trying to wash away the haunted look in my eyes.
When I emerge, Tiana is waiting patiently, her own face showing the strain of the day’s events.“Ready?”she asks simply.
I nod, squaring my shoulders.“Ready.”
As we walk back toward the waiting area, I steel myself for the hours ahead.For the waiting, the uncertainty, the fear that threatens to consume me.But beneath that fear runs a current of something stronger.Determination, perhaps.Or faith.
Because Zach is fighting for his life in that operating room.And I intend to be here when he wins that fight, ready to begin whatever comes next.Together.
I pace the surgical waiting room, my body moving on autopilot while my mind races through every possible outcome.Four hours have passed since they wheeled Zach through those double doors.Four hours of imagining his chest cracked open, and surgeons’ hands inside him working desperately to repair what bullets have torn apart.
The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, each second stretching into eternity.I’ve counted the ceiling tiles memorized the faded pattern on the industrial carpet, and drunk enough terrible coffee to make my hands tremble, though I can’t tell if that’s caffeine or fear anymore.
“Sit down, son.”Butcher’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts.“You’re wearing a path in the floor.”
I look up to find Zach’s father watching me with exhausted eyes that somehow still manage to convey both authority and concern.Blood has dried in the creases of his knuckles.His son’s or someone else’s, I don’t know.
“I can’t,” I admit, rubbing my face with hands that still feel like they should be covered in Zach’s blood despite the thorough scrubbing I gave them.“If I sit, I’ll start thinking, and if I start thinking…” I trail off, unable to voice the possibilities that haunt me.
Butcher nods, understanding without needing me to finish.“First time I waited while Shaylin was in surgery, I punched a hole in the hospital wall.”His mouth quirks in what might have been a smile under different circumstances.“Broke three knuckles.Didn’t feel a thing until she was in recovery.”
I glance at the wall, half expecting to see the evidence of that long-ago vigil.Instead, I notice Shaylin herself, curled in a chair in the corner, Tiana’s arm around her shoulders.Zach’s mother hasn’t spoken in hours, her eyes fixed on those surgical doors as if she’s willing them to open through sheer maternal determination.
Grey approaches, his own wounds now properly bandaged, though he refused to be admitted despite what looks like a significant head injury.“Any word?”he asks, voice rough from smoke and shouting.
I shake my head.“Nothing yet.”
“No news is good news,” he says, the platitude falling flat in the tension-thick air.
My pager buzzes at my hip, the temporary one Dr.Patel assigned me so they could update me without leaving surgery.My heart leaps into my throat as I check the message.
