Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
bittersweet
SOREN
Walking back through those hospital sliding doors felt like returning to a crime scene I'd rather forget.
Rook's hand was steady on the small of my back as we crossed the lobby, and I had to resist the urge to shake him off. Not because I didn't want him there, but because his touch made me too aware of how fragile I still felt. How easily I could crack open again if someone looked at me wrong.
“You good?” he asked for the third time since we'd left his house.
“If you ask me that one more time, I'm gonna start lying just to make it interesting.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn't smile.
The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside. A woman in scrubs got on after us, took one look at Rook, and did a double-take that would've been funny under different circumstances.
“You're—” she started.
“Yep,” Rook said, hitting the button for the third floor with more force than necessary.
The woman looked like she wanted to say more, but something in Rook's expression made her reconsider. We rode up in silence, and when the doors opened again, Rook's hand found mine and squeezed once before letting go.
“I can come in if you want,” he said quietly. “Or I can wait out here. Your call.”
The truth was I didn't trust myself not to bolt the second things got uncomfortable, and Rook's presence was the only thing keeping me tethered to the idea that I was supposed to be here.
“You can come in,” I said. “But if you answer any questions for me, I'm telling everyone you cried during the Toy Story credits.”
“I didn't cry during Toy Story.”
“You absolutely did. I saw the tears.”
“That was allergies.”
“Sure it was, Captain Sensitive.”
The waiting room was mercifully empty except for a guy scrolling through his phone in the corner. We checked in with the receptionist—a middle-aged woman who didn't seem to recognize Rook, thankfully—and sat down in chairs that were only marginally more comfortable than the ones in the ER.
Rook sat close enough that our knees touched, and I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
He'd been like this since he'd found me—coiled tight, hypervigilant, watching me like he expected me to disappear if he looked away for too long.
It would've driven me crazy if I didn't understand exactly why he was doing it.
“You're hovering,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“I'm sitting.”
“You're sitting like a bear guarding a salmon. It's very intense.”
“I'm not hovering.”
“You've checked on me seventeen times since breakfast. That's hovering.”
“I was making sure you ate.”
“I ate. You watched me eat. You counted my bites like a creepy carb accountant.”
That got a small smile out of him, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction. Making Rook smile had always been one of my favorite things to do, and the fact that I could still do it after everything that had happened felt like proof that I hadn't completely destroyed the good parts of myself.
“Soren Vale?” A nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
I stood up, and Rook stood with me, his hand hovering near my elbow like he thought I might need help walking ten feet across a waiting room. I shot him a look and he had the grace to look slightly sheepish.
The exam room was small and sterile, with the usual lineup of medical equipment and a poster about hand-washing that had definitely seen better days.
The nurse took my vitals—blood pressure, temperature, pulse—and asked the standard questions about pain levels and allergies.
Rook stood in the corner looking like a bodyguard who'd accidentally wandered into the wrong building, and I had to bite back a laugh.
“The doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse said, and then we were alone again.
“You can sit down,” I told Rook. “I'm not gonna spontaneously combust if you stop staring at me for five seconds.”
He sat down in the chair by the door, but his eyes never left me. I perched on the edge of the exam table and tried to figure out what to do with my hands, which suddenly felt too big and too obvious. The paper crinkled under me every time I shifted, and the sound was loud enough to make me wince.
The doctor came in a few minutes later. She introduced herself as Dr. Patel, shook both our hands, and settled into the rolling chair with a tablet balanced on her knee.
“So, Soren,” she said, pulling up my chart. “How are you feeling today?”
I opened my mouth to say fine, then caught Rook's eye and reconsidered. “Tired. A little shaky. Embarrassed, mostly.”
“Embarrassment is normal after what you've been through.
Let's talk about the physical side first, and then we can address some of the other pieces.” She tapped through a few screens.
“You were treated for an intentional overdose of sedatives combined with alcohol.
Your liver function looks good, which is encouraging.
How's your appetite been since discharge?”
“Not great. I've been eating, but I have to kind of force it.”
“That's common. Your body's still recovering from the toxicity. Are you experiencing any nausea, dizziness, or headaches?”
“Headaches, yeah. And I feel kind of foggy. Like I'm moving through water.”
She made a note. “That should improve over the next week or so. If it doesn't, we'll want to run some additional tests. How about sleep?”
I hesitated, and Rook shifted in his chair. “He's been having nightmares,” Rook said quietly. “Wakes up a couple times a night.”
Dr. Patel looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded. “Yeah. Bad dreams. But I've been sleeping more than I was before, so that's probably an improvement.”
“Are you taking anything to help with sleep?”
“No. Just—” I gestured vaguely. “Trying to tough it out, I guess.”
“We can discuss sleep aids if it becomes a bigger issue, but for now I'd recommend keeping a consistent bedtime routine and avoiding screens before bed. Speaking of which—” She looked up from the tablet. “Have you had any alcohol since your discharge?”
“No.”
“Any desire to drink?”
I wanted to lie. But Rook was sitting right there, and Dr. Patel was looking at me with an expression that said she'd heard every lie in the book, so I went with the truth.
“Yeah. I've thought about it. But I haven't done it for a while.”
“That's good. That's honest, and it's good.” She made another note.
“I'm going to recommend continuing to abstain for at least the next month while your body finishes metabolizing the medication.
After that, we can reassess, but I'd strongly encourage you to consider whether alcohol is serving you in a healthy way.”
“It's not,” I said flatly. “I know it's not.”
“Then we'll work on building other coping mechanisms. Are you seeing a therapist regularly?”
“Yeah. Dr. Lin. I've got an appointment this afternoon, actually.”
“Excellent. And are you on any psychiatric medications currently?”
“Not yet. Dr. Lin and I have been talking about it, but I haven't started anything.”
Dr. Patel nodded. “That's something you'll want to discuss with her today. Depression and suicidal ideation often respond well to medication in combination with therapy.” She paused, then asked the question I'd been dreading.
“Do you feel safe right now? Are you having thoughts of harming yourself again?”
The room went very quiet. I could hear Rook breathing in the corner, could feel the weight of his attention even though I wasn't looking at him.
“I'm not planning anything,” I said carefully. “But yeah, the thoughts are still there. They're just—quieter than they were.”
“What makes them quieter?”
I glanced at Rook, then away. “Having people around. Knowing I'd hurt them if I did it again. Not wanting to be that selfish.”
“That's not selfish,” Dr. Patel said gently. “Suicidal ideation is a symptom of illness, not a character flaw. But I'm glad you have people in your life who make you want to stay. Who's your primary support person right now?”
“Him,” I said, nodding toward Rook. “And my siblings. My bandmates. Dr. Lin.”
“Good. A strong support system is critical during recovery.” She looked at Rook. “And you're—?”
“Rowan Kincaid,” Rook said. “We're—” He hesitated, and I saw him searching for the right word. “We're together.”
“He's my boyfriend,” I added, because watching Rook try to explain our situation was both endearing and painful. “And he's been letting me stay with him since I got out.”
Dr. Patel smiled. “That's good. Having a safe, stable environment is important. Rowan, do you have any questions or concerns?”
Rook leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How do I know if he's getting worse? What should I be watching for?”
“Increased isolation, changes in sleep or appetite, giving away possessions, talking about being a burden, any kind of goodbye language.
If you notice any of those things, you call the crisis line immediately or bring him to the ER.
Don't wait.” She turned back to me. “And Soren, if you're feeling unsafe, you need to tell someone. That's non-negotiable.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. This isn't about willpower or toughing it out. This is about survival, and survival sometimes means asking for help before you think you need it.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
The rest of the appointment was logistics—follow-up bloodwork in two weeks, another check-in with Dr. Patel in a month, instructions to avoid certain medications that could interact badly with my system.
Rook asked a few more questions, taking mental notes with the same focus he brought to studying game tape, and by the time we left I felt wrung out and slightly nauseous.
We didn't talk much on the drive to Dr. Lin's office.
Rook kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console where I could reach it if I wanted to, and I spent most of the ride staring out the window at the gray Toronto sky and trying not to think about how many more appointments like this were in my future.