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He wraps his arms around me before I even get a chance, pulling me in like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth. And I hold him right back, clinging to him, both of us trembling, both of us bleeding in different ways.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he chokes out, voice ragged in my ear. “I tried. I—I drove like hell and I still⁠—”

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper. “You were there. You got her here. You saved her, Thorin.”

He nods against my shoulder, but I don’t know if he hears me. His arms stay locked around me like letting go might split him down the middle. So I stay. I let him hold on. Because maybe that’s all either of us can do right now.

“She’s asking for you,” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. “They’ve got her on something strong. She’s in and out. But… she said your name.”

My breath hitches.

I pull back slowly, my hands still on his arms, his eyes bloodshot and glassy and full of everything he’s trying not to feel.

“Go,” he says, clearing his throat and swiping at his face. “She’ll want to know you’re here.”

I nod, my heart cracking open with every step as I move toward the door.

Because I know what’s waiting on the other side.

And I’m scared she won’t be Reese anymore.

The door creaks open with a whisper-soft groan, the kind that feels too loud in a room where everything else is fighting to stay still. Machines beep gently. Monitors blink in slow, steady rhythm. The air smells like antiseptic and metal and something sadder than I know how to name.

And there she is.

Small. Pale. Still.

Her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks, her lips parted on a shallow breath. She looks like she’s been scraped raw and then stitched back together by shaking hands. There’s an IV in her arm and a line of dried blood around her wrist, like even her skin didn’t want to let go.

I walk in slowly, every step thick with ache. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t even know if she’s fully conscious. But I pull the chair closer to her bed and sit, careful not to disturb the peace—or whatever fragile thing is holding her together right now.

Then she shifts.

Just the tiniest flutter of her fingers. A twitch of her mouth.

And then⁠—

“Mya?” Her voice is paper-thin, like it had to claw its way up from the bottom of a well. “Are you⁠—?”

“I’m here.” I lean forward, clutching her hand gently like it might disintegrate if I hold too tight. “I’m right here.”

Her eyes crack open, red-rimmed and glassy. The second she sees me, they fill with something so sharp it makes my chest cave in.

“I lost her,” she whispers.

My heart fractures clean down the middle.

“She was mine,” she says again, her voice breaking. “She was mine and I didn’t even get to meet her.”

“Oh, Reese…” My tears fall freely now, quiet and hot and unrelenting as I brush her hair off her forehead. “You did everything right. You tried so hard. You carried her with so much love.”

“I wanted it to be different,” she chokes out. “I wanted—God, I wanted her so bad.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”

She turns her face into the pillow like she’s trying to hide from the truth. Or from me. But I don’t let go. I stay right there, anchored to her bedside, stroking her hand and whispering her name like a prayer.

Because I can’t give her answers.