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The sentiment struck him in a physical way. He leaned back, shook his head, and then pitched forward again, dropping his head against their hands. They stayed that way for the span of several deep breaths before Aster seemed to find the determination required to move their conversation forward. A gift, perhaps, of not lingering on the terrible thing he’d just told her.

“The apartment is more or less destroyed,” he said. “They’re still investigating. Insurance will need to have its go too.”

Molly didn’t care. Overwrought, wrung out, it was difficult to think of anything other than a nursery she didn’t know and grief she should.

“Hey,” Aster said, pulling Molly’s attention from where she’d been staring at the plastic guardrail on one side of her bed. “We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

He leaned in, a warm hand squeezing the back of her neck. “We’re okay,” he said again, kissing her gently.

“Where the fuck is my best friend?”

Aster pulled back, brows furrowed, as he looked at the slightly cracked door. Molly watched too, wondering if she’d imagined the disturbance in the following eerie silence.

Then the door swung open, revealing Justine Dawson, immaculate apart from the purple bags beneath her eyes and the bright-yellow yarn, tangled and dangling from her purse in a massive knot.

“Quit your cuddling. I just—I need a word,” Justine said, expression beseeching as she invited herself into the room. She stepped up to the foot of Molly’s bed.

Aster, who’d been hovering over Molly, backed away, scooting his chair with a bemused look. “By all means, Justine, have your moment with my wife.”

Justine nodded, jaw tense, and looking a bit wobbly.

“They said you haven’t forgotten anything else,” she started, “but I have something to say just in case, because I’m not waiting again. You’re my best friend.” She gulped a breath. “We’re also business partners and we run a bookshop and it’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. I love it, I love it so much. And I missed having you there. I missed my best friend and—Jesus fucking Christ, now I’m crying. I wasn’t going to cry.”

Molly failed to suppress her fond smile while Justine furiously wiped her tears.

“Justine,” she began. “I know I’m your best friend. I know about the bookstore, and I love it too.” She paused, exhaustion pulling on her. “That tiny little office of mine? All my spreadsheets crammed with reading trends and donation drives and community events? I love them. And you’ve made that possible.”

“Stop, Christ, don’t make me cry again. I’m not wearing waterproof mascara.”

Molly choked out a sad laugh. “Fine. But, so, what I’m saying is that since I do remember all that, it’s probably fair to say that you’re one of my best friends too.”

“You’re too pedantic to believe someone can have more than one best friend,” Justine said without any bite, smiling. “But I’ll take it.”

Molly struggled through a yawn, which Justine took as a sign to make her leave. She walked around the bed and locked Molly in a lingering hug before whispering, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Molly kindly chose to ignore Justine’s sniffle as she left.

“When can I leave, do you know?” Molly asked of Aster as he returned his chair to her bedside. She closed her eyes, lost to blessed darkness and the sweet pressure of his hand in hers.

“I can find out while you sleep,” he said. “And I’ll call your dad to update him while you rest. His doctor cleared him to fly. He wants to come out in a couple of weeks once we’re settled. I’ve been staying at Eli’s, and he’s invited us for as long as we need. Pawntès is perfectly at home. And that’s some good news; Eli had Pawntès, so he’s safe.”

“My cat,” Molly said, and she found herself quietly crying again. She was so, so tired.

“I know. Shh, I know.” He reached out and stroked her hair. “He’s okay. And apparently one shockingly prescient tarot spread was enough for Eli and Bentley to figure out . . . whatever it is they’ve had going on for the last half decade. It’s not the quietest time to be sharing a house with Eli, big as it is.”

Aster chuckled, soft and comforting.

“Eli’s a good friend,” she mumbled. “I’m glad he’s happy.” She reached up and tangled her fingers with his.

“Me too,” Aster agreed as the room steadily faded from Molly’s consciousness.

“Gas exposure, particularly over long periods of time and in inconsistent toxicity levels, affects everyone differently. It can cause tremors, brain fog, headaches, and a myriad of other symptoms. I’m not an expert,” Dr. Macmillan said, “but I’ve spoken with a colleague who’s much better versed. It seems likely, given what we know now, that the gas exposure in your home was a contributing factor to your strokes.”

Molly nodded. Finally having a tentative explanation saturated her to the point of numbness. She was meant to feel joy or relief or something. But instead, she laid in her bed, fingers twisted in her thin, stiff hospital blanket, distracted by not feeling much of anything. To know she couldn’t have prevented it or helped herself, and to know Aster and Pawntès had been in just as much danger in that same apartment, felt like little more than a hollow, horrible victory.

“In your particular case, we suspect the minor concussive force you experienced the night before from those books falling on your head either aggravated an already existing weakness caused by the gas or created circumstances that allowed the exposure to cause real harm. Either way, we’re hopeful that without consistent exposure, you may see improvements.”

Molly’s heart skittered in her chest. She regretted insisting Aster finally get some rest and real food. She needed someone to hold on to, someone to bolster her while she dared to dream.