CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
“I’m not as unhinged as my sister,” he says dryly. “But she’s not wrong to be protective of Wynter. Her coming to see you like she did, it’s because she feels out of her depth. Seeing you is her way of trying to help. She thinks it might help Wynter’s recovery if you just clear the air.”
I sit, nodding once. “I can try.”
A flicker of something almost amused crosses his face. “It took you two weeks to find her,” he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. Just fact.
I nod again. “These places are private for a reason.”
“And yet here you are.”
“In the end, I didn’t use legal channels,” I admit.
His gaze sharpens. “Are you here because of the baby?”
It’s a loaded question, and I take a minute before finally admitting the truth out loud. “I’m here for both of them,” I say.
He leans back in his chair, studying me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m worth anything at all. “My girl’s been through enough,” he says. “I won’t watch her get hurt again.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“Do you?” he challenges lightly. “Because from what I’ve been told, you walked away pretty easily.”
I swallow. It wasn’t easy. But I don’t defend it because he’d never understand.
“She’s got it in her head she’s cursed,” he continues. “She even told the doctor that everyone she loves dies. She wouldn’t let me visit at first because she thought I’d be next.”
The pain in my heart intensifies. “Is she getting better?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
“A little,” he says. “Therapy. Group sessions. They’re getting her eating again. It’s slow, but it’s progress.”
Relief mixes with something else.
Fear.
“Will seeing me set her back?” I ask, because that matters more than anything.
He shrugs slightly. “The nurse has gone to ask her therapist.” Then his eyes lock onto mine. “But before I let you anywhere near her,” he says, “I need to know what you want.”
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, something I haven’t done since I was a kid standing in front of someone I didn’t want to disappoint.
“I don’t have some grand plan,” I admit.
“I just . . . I haven’t slept properly since I found out where she was.
I can’t stop thinking about her.” It’s the truth.
“I fell in love with her,” I add, the words feeling unfamiliar in my mouth.
“And I walked away because I was grieving and hurting. Angry at everyone. I thought it was the right thing to do.” I let out a breath. “It wasn’t.”
Silence stretches between us.
“If she doesn’t want to see me,” I say, forcing the words out, “if she hates me . . . I’ll leave. I won’t make this harder for her.” Even if it kills me. “I’ll let her decide.”
He watches me for a long moment. Measuring, weighing me up.
“And if she wants you to stay?” he asks.
The question shouldn’t be hard, but it is. Because staying means risking everything I’ve always avoided.
“I will,” I say finally. “I’ll stay. For her. For the baby.”
Something shifts in his expression. It’s not quite approval. But it’s not rejection either.
The nurse returns with a small, careful smile. “The therapist said to give it a try. We’ll have to monitor from another room. There’s a glass privacy window.”
I glance at Wynter’s father, who gives a slight nod. I inhale sharply then follow the nurse, each step feeling heavier than the last.
She stops outside a door and gestures towards the small circular window.
I don’t move straight away. I don’t know what I’m going to see. And for the first time in a long time . . .
I’m afraid.
I force myself closer to look inside. And everything in me just stops.
Wynter is sitting on the bed. But she doesn’t look like Wynter. She’s smaller somehow. Fragile. Like someone’s taken pieces of her and left only what they couldn’t carry.
Her skin is pale, almost translucent under the harsh hospital light. Her hair hangs limp around her face, lacking the shine I remember, and her frame—Christ—she’s so thin, it makes my chest ache to look at her.
Too thin for someone carrying a baby.
Her hands rest protectively over the small curve of her stomach. Like she’s guarding it and the jewellery box sits open beside her, the soft tune drifting into the corridor.
She’s smiling. A small, distant smile, like she’s not really here.
She looks up suddenly, like she senses she’s being watched. She sees me and something flickers in her eyes, and I watch the light leave in seconds.
The smile drops instantly. Her hand flies to the box, slamming it shut as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
I don’t realise I’ve moved until I’m inside the room. The door clicks shut behind me.
“Sometimes it needs winding at the back,” I say quietly, my voice rough. “The tune plays faster.”
She stares at me like I’m a stranger. Like I don’t belong here.
“Get out,” she whispers. It’s not loud, barely above a whisper.
“I just wanted to see how you are,” I say, taking another step before stopping myself.
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “Why?” she asks, her voice trembling. “You didn’t care before.”
“I did,” I say immediately. “I always cared, Wynter.”
Her expression shifts to panic, and she curls slightly around her stomach, her hands pressing tighter.
“You’re not taking my baby,” she says, her voice rising. “You can’t take my baby.”
“I’m not here to take anything,” I say quickly. “I’m not here to take our baby—”
“My baby,” she snaps, louder now, her breathing uneven. “Mine. You don’t get to just come back and decide it’s yours.”
I nod slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. “Okay,” I say softly. “Your baby.”
Her shoulders shake. The fight drains out of her as quickly as it came. “Who knew,” she whispers after a moment, staring down at her hands, “you could get locked away for being sad.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them. I look around the room again. The neutral walls. The lack of anything personal.
“It’s a nice room,” I mutter, because I don’t know what else to say.
She lets out another hollow laugh. “I’d rather you didn’t come again,” she says. “You make it worse.”
“I don’t mean to,” I say, gently. “I know I messed up. I know that.”
She doesn’t look at me as she shifts her body awkwardly, turning away from me and lying down. She pulls the thin blanket up like a barrier between us.
“You’re wasting your time,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to see you.”
Silence fills the room.
I stand there, looking at the girl I broke.
Not knowing how the hell I’m supposed to fix it.
I check into a hotel five minutes from the hospital. It’s nothing fancy, just somewhere close in case she needs me urgently.
The next morning, Lucy is by the reception desk talking to a nurse. She looks me up and down, like I’m something she’s scraped off her shoe.
“Back again,” she mutters. “She told you she didn’t want to see you again. So, you really don’t need to bother.”
“I do.”
“But for how long?” she asks, arching a brow.
I ignore her and head down the corridor. I stop outside Wynter’s room and look through the small circular window again. She’s awake, sitting up with one hand resting over her stomach, the other picking absentmindedly at the edge of the blanket.
She looks even smaller today. Or maybe I’m just noticing more.
Her head lifts and she sees me. And instead of panicking this time, she just rolls onto her side, turning her back. Like I’m not even worth the reaction.
I open the door anyway. Lucy doesn’t say anything, but I feel her watching me as I walk in. I keep my movements slow. Quiet. Like I might scare her off if I move too fast.
“I brought you some things,” I say, placing a couple magazines on the bedside table. I don’t know what she likes anymore. I don’t know anything anymore, but Holly told me what to get.
I refill her water jug, giving myself something to do with my hands. Something normal, something useful.
“Sebastian asked about you,” I add after a moment.
She doesn’t respond.
I pull my phone out, stepping a little closer. “He wanted me to show you this.” I hold the screen where she can see it—a picture of him grinning, with both thumbs up, clearly proud of himself. “He misses you.”
Still nothing. Not even a glance.
I lower the phone slowly. “He’s doing well,” I say, softer now. “He talks about you a lot.” I sit in the chair beside her bed, careful not to get too close. “Dale sends his love too,” I add, because silence feels unbearable otherwise. “And Holly.”
She shifts slightly, just enough to turn farther away from me, pulling the blanket over her head to shut me out completely.
Suddenly, the room feels smaller, like the rejection is swallowing me whole. My worst fears are surrounding me, yet still I stay, because fighting it feels like a win, even if she does eventually reject me completely.
An hour passes with nothing but the quiet hum of the building and her steady breathing. I don’t try to fill it anymore. I just stay, because leaving feels worse.
Eventually, I stand, stretching because my legs feel stiff. My chest feels even heavier.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say quietly.
There’s a pause, but she shifts, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to speak.
“Don’t bother,” she mutters, crushing me.
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “But I will,” I say, because I deserve the rejection.
Lucy is waiting outside with her arms folded and a smug smile. “Ready to give up yet?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“I told you,” she says, “she hates you.”
I glance back at the door, at Wynter on the other side of it, now sitting up and reaching for the jewellery box.
“And I don’t blame her,” I say sadly. “I deserve her hate.” Then, I look at Lucy. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The next day, I don’t wait outside. I go straight in. Maybe if she doesn’t have time to prepare, I’ll see something real. Something that tells me I haven’t completely lost her.
She looks at me as I sit down. There’s still distance there but not the same sharp anger.
“Why do you keep coming back?” she asks. Her voice is tired but not hostile.
“Because I treated you like shit,” I say simply, “and I want to make it right.”
She studies me for a moment. “So, if I tell you we’re all good, you’ll stop coming?”
I huff out a small breath. “No.”
She exhales, leaning back against the pillows. “Then it’s a waste of time.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Her eyes flicker with something—irritation, maybe—but it doesn’t stick. “What will make you stop coming?” she asks.
“When I see you’re better.”
She lets out a quiet, humourless laugh. “Better? What if I never get better?”
“You will,” I say, not even hesitating. “Storms don’t last forever, Wynter.
They feel like they do when you’re in them, but they don’t.
Things change, just like the seasons, dark skies becoming warmer.
And slowly, things change.” She doesn’t look convinced.
“One day,” I continue, softer now, “you’ll catch yourself smiling at something stupid.
Or laughing at a memory. And it’ll feel wrong at first, but it won’t last. The light comes back. ”
She watches me carefully. “How would you know?” she asks. There’s no bite to it, just . . . curiosity. “What if there was never light? When did you ever really ask me about my life?”
I nod slightly. “You’re right. I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t see you,” I add, “or feel something for you.”
She tilts her head slightly, sceptical. “Go on then,” she says. “What did you see?”
I hesitate just long enough for her to think I’ve got nothing. She gives me a small, almost smug smile. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“Like how you hate hummus.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s not exactly insightful. Most normal people hate hummus.”
“The way you scrunch your nose when you laugh,” I continue.
She rolls her eyes slightly. “Wow, I’m overwhelmed.”
I smile faintly. “The way you stand on your toes when you’re nervous,” I add. “Like you’re about to run but haven’t decided where to yet.”
She pauses, eyeing me warily.
“And the way you close your eyes when you take the first sip of tea,” I go on, quieter now. “Like the world can wait for a second while you enjoy it.” She doesn’t interrupt this time. “You pretend to like wine,” I add, “even though you hate it, because you think it makes you look put-together.”
A small breath leaves her.
“And you have an unhealthy addiction to hot chocolate,” I say. “Doesn’t matter what the weather is like outside.”
Her fingers tighten slightly in the blanket.
“You try to be quiet when you’re not feeling well . . . or hungover. You vomit quietly,” I say, smiling fondly, “like you don’t want to bother anyone.”
I hold her gaze. “I notice you, Wynter,” I say softly. “I always have.”
She looks away first. “There are things you don’t know,” she whispers. “Things that matter.”
There’s weight in her words, more than just Josh or her mum. I feel it, but I don’t push too hard because this is the longest she’s tolerated me in days.
“Then you tell me when you’re ready,” I say quietly. “Not because you have to, but because I’m not going anywhere this time.”
Her eyes flick back to mine, searching for the truth, like she doesn’t believe what I’m saying.
“How is this supposed to work, Ray?” she asks, her voice fragile now.
“I can’t even look after myself right now, never mind a baby.
I don’t want . . . I don’t want to be one of those families who passes their child back and forth like it’s normal.
” Her throat tightens. “Everything feels like a mess.”
It’s not just fear I hear, it’s guilt. I reach for her hand before I can stop myself. She tenses at first, then lets me.
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” I say, softer now. “We don’t have to turn this into something broken before it’s even begun.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “You say it like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “It’s going to be hard. Probably the hardest thing either of us has done.” I tighten my grip on her hand slightly. “But we’ll figure it out,” I add. “One step at a time. Not all at once. Not today. Just get through one day at a time.”
Her eyes drop to where our hands are joined. “And tomorrow?” she asks quietly.
“I’ll still be here,” I say. The words feel bigger than anything else I’ve said, because I’ve never made such a big promise before and meant it. “To help you,” I continue. “With whatever you need. Even if that’s just sitting here while you ignore me.”
A small, broken huff of laughter escapes her. And it’s the most alive she’s sounded since I walked in.