Mission (Aftermath #1)

4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Katie

T he hospital waiting room is a strange limbo. Too quiet, yet full of small, intrusive sounds—the hum of fluorescent lights, the shuffle of nurses' shoes on polished floors, the occasional beep of a distant monitor. I sit in one of those awful plastic chairs, twisting my hands in my lap, my stomach a mess of nerves. Across from me, Aaron taps his foot against the tile, his phone clutched tightly in his hand.

“Do you want coffee or something?” he asks, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

“No, thanks,” I say, barely glancing at him. My eyes keep drifting toward the doors leading into the treatment area, as if staring hard enough will make them open faster.

Aaron sighs, leaning back in his chair. “He’ll be here soon. They’ll take care of him.”

I nod but don’t respond. I appreciate the effort, but it’s not reassurance I need. It’s Will. I need to see him, to know that he’s really here, that he’s still breathing, still... him .

Phoebe’s absence feels like a second weight on my chest. She begged to come, of course. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t be here, why she had to stay at her friend Ella’s house instead.

“You said Daddy’s hurt. I want to see him now,” she’d insisted, her eyes brimming with tears.

I’d knelt down to her level, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I know, sweetheart. But Daddy needs to rest tonight, and the doctors need to help him. I promise, you can see him tomorrow.”

That promise had been the only thing to calm her. Now, sitting here, I clutch onto it too, like a lifeline. Tomorrow, she’ll see her dad. I’ll make sure of it.

The sound of hurried footsteps pulls me back to the present. Two paramedics push through the double doors, wheeling in a stretcher. Even though I can’t see much past the equipment and the blanket, I know it’s him. My heart lurches.

Aaron is on his feet immediately, but he doesn’t move toward the stretcher. He knows better than to get in the way. I follow his lead, watching as the paramedics speak quickly with a doctor in scrubs. Will’s face is pale, his head lolling slightly to the side. His strong, angular jawline, usually so commanding, looks slack and fragile now. There are bandages on his forehead, and cuts crisscrossing his skin with some slashes ripping through his dark beard. His body is so still it feels wrong, completely wrong.

“They’re taking him to surgery,” Aaron says, his voice low. “It’s precautionary. The hospital in Tajikistan stabilised him, but they’ll want to check everything here.”

I nod, unable to speak. My throat feels tight and I fight the tears that sting my eyes. I can’t even imagine the pain he must be in .

The paramedics wheel him past us, through another set of doors, and he’s gone again, swallowed up by the hospital’s labyrinth.

Hours drag on. Doctors come and go, updating us in clipped, professional tones. The surgery confirms the report we had from the insurance’s medevac coordinator. Will’s injuries are severe but not life-threatening. A ruptured artery in his abdomen was repaired in Tajikistan during an emergency operation, saving his life. His pelvis and abdominal muscles are badly damaged but intact. He has multiple torn tendons in his knee which will take weeks to heal. Nevertheless, he was lucky. It could have been much worse.

Finally, close to midnight, they allow us to see him.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors and the faint orange light spilling in from the corridor. Will lies in the hospital bed, surrounded by machinery that hums and beeps quietly. His chest rises and falls steadily, but his expression is tight with pain, even in his sleep.

Aaron stands beside me, his usual confident air replaced by something quieter, almost hesitant. “You go,” he says after a moment. “I’ll wait outside.”

I nod, grateful for the privacy, and step closer to the bed. My legs feel unsteady, like they’re carrying me across a tightrope instead of a hospital floor.

I stop at Will’s side, unsure what to do with my hands. I want to touch him, to reassure myself that he’s real, that he’s alive, but I don’t know where it’s safe. His arms? His hand? Everything about him looks fragile, like the slightest pressure might break him.

“Will,” I whisper, my voice catching. He doesn’t stir; I hadn’t expected him to.

I sink into the chair beside the bed, finally letting out the breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. Seeing him like this stirs something deep and unwelcome inside me—a mix of fear and guilt and something I can’t quite name.

The soft creak of the door pulls me from my thoughts. A nurse steps in, her movements efficient but gentle. She checks his vitals, adjusts his IV, then turns to me with a kind smile. “He’s doing well. Pain management will be key for the next few days, but he’s stable. You should get some rest too.”

I nod automatically, even though I know I won’t be leaving. As soon as the nurse is gone, I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands clasped together.

“Phoebe wants to see you tomorrow,” I say softly, even though I know he can’t hear me. “I promised her she could. She misses you. So do I.”

The words are out before I can stop them, and they hang in the air, heavier than I intended. I sit back, startled by my own admission. I haven’t let myself say—or even think—that in so long. But here, in this quiet room, with Will lying so still in front of me, it feels like the truth I’ve been avoiding.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, Will stirs. It’s subtle at first—a twitch of his fingers, a shift in his expression. Then his eyes flutter open, and he blinks blearily at the ceiling.

“Will,” I say, leaning closer. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. ”

His eyes find mine, and for a moment, something flickers there—confusion, pain, recognition. “Katie?” he croaks, his voice rough and barely audible.

“I’m here,” I say quickly, brushing a hand over his uninjured arm. “You’re going to be okay. Just... try to rest.”

He blinks again, his gaze softening slightly. “Phoebe?”

“She’s fine,” I assure him. “She’s with Ella. She’s coming to see you tomorrow… well, today.”

He nods faintly, his eyes already starting to drift shut again. But before they close completely, he murmurs something that makes my heart skip a beat.

“You’re still here.”

I swallow hard, watching as his breathing evens out once more. The room feels impossibly quiet, his words echoing in my mind.

“Yes,” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me. “I’m still here.”