Chapter 12
Alex
Liv doesn’t argue about the helmet; that’s how I know something is really wrong.
Just a few hours ago, though it feels like days ago, getting her onto my bike involved a few irritated comments about me not wearing a helmet. Considering I only have one on me right now, I’ll be putting it on her. End of discussion.
But now, nothing. Not one word. She just takes the helmet from my hand silently and puts it on. No complaint when I don’t put one on myself. No glare. No sarcastic “you know those laws apply to you too, right?”
Nothing. That scares me more than the blood did.
I start the bike, the engine vibrating beneath us as the city lights blur around us in the hospital parking lot.
For a second, she just stands there beside the bike like she forgot what we’re doing. Then she climbs on behind me automatically. Slowly and carefully.
The second we pull out onto the street, her arms slide around my waist. Not tightly like before and not flirtatiously. Just… tired. Like she doesn’t have enough energy left to hold herself upright alone.
And Christ, that hits harder than it should.
The ride across town is completely silent. I can still see the crash scene every time I blink. The twisted metal and shattered glass scattered out from the crumpled ambulance.
And Liv dropping to her knees beside Alice with the kind of desperate denial only medical personnel really understand. Because we all know what death looks like. And sometimes we still refuse to believe it anyway.
I’d found out more at the hospital. His name was Brian. He was twenty-three years old. Dead because a drunk driver blew past the other stopped vehicles as an ambulance sped past with a code three.
Alice barely able to breathe through her sobbing and Liv trying to hold her together.
My mouth becomes a tight line.
Behind me, her grip shifts slightly against my stomach, still there and still quiet.
I ease off the throttle a little. Not because the roads require it, but because she does.
When we stop at a red light downtown, I glance down briefly at the hand wrapped around my waist. Her fingers are trembling, tiny movements that are barely noticeable. But they’re enough.
I cover her hand with mine for just a second. A small squeeze. She squeezes back once, weakly, then lets go again.
The rest of the ride passes beneath the blur of streetlights and cold night air. When we finally pull up in front of her apartment building, she doesn’t move right away, neither of us does. The bike idles beneath us, low and steady. Then slowly, she climbs off and hands me the helmet.
Her eyes look wrecked, red-rimmed, and empty in that post-shock kind of way.
“Liv.”
She looks at me, just barely, like she’s still halfway back at the crash scene.
“You okay?” The question feels stupid the second it leaves my mouth. Of course she isn’t okay.
Her throat moves once before she answers. “No.”
I step closer automatically, not touching her yet but close enough that I can immediately as soon as she gives me the sign to. “You did everything you could,” I tell her.
The look she gives me nearly cracks something behind my ribs. Because she knows that, logically and professionally. And it still doesn’t matter.
“We’re supposed to save people,” she whispers.
I exhale slowly. God. The guilt first responders carry is brutal because it doesn’t care about reality. Doesn’t care if the injuries were survivable. Doesn’t care if the victim died instantly. Some part of her will always wonder if she could’ve done more.
“There was nothing anyone could’ve done,” I articulate.
Her eyes close briefly, like hearing it hurts.
“Alice couldn’t stop crying,” she says quietly. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”
The words tell me more than anything else tonight that Liv’s hurting, but she’s still focused on everyone else. Still carrying people even now.
“She’ll get through it,” I say.
Liv nods faintly but she doesn’t seem convinced.
Neither am I.
A cold wind cuts through the street between buildings. She shivers slightly.
“Go upstairs,” I tell her softly. “Get some sleep if you can.”
A humorless little laugh escapes her. “You say that like that’s going to happen.”
Fair.
I brush my thumb lightly beneath one of her eyes before I can overthink it. Her breath catches slightly, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to carry all of it tonight,” I murmur.
Something in her expression wavers dangerously for a second, like she might break open right here on the sidewalk. But then she pulls herself back together, because of course she does.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says softly. Not if.
Something warm settles beneath my ribs despite the night we just had. “Yeah,” I reply. “You will.”
She hesitates another second, then finally turns and heads toward her apartment building.
This time, when the door closes behind her, I don’t stare after her. Mostly because if I do, I might follow her upstairs. And tonight isn’t about what I want.
I scrub my hand down my face and finally pull my phone from my pocket. The screen lights up immediately. Eleven missed calls. Fourteen text messages. All from Mason.
“…shit.”
I check the side of the phone. The ringer switched off accidentally. Probably during the chaos at the crash scene.
The second I call him back, he answers. “Jesus Christ,” Mason snaps. “Where the hell have you been?” His voice sounds tight with worry, way more worried than he usually lets himself sound.
“At the hospital.”
“Was it Liv?”
The question hits me straight in the chest. Because apparently that was his first thought too.
“No,” I answer quickly. “Not her ambulance.”
There’s an audible exhale on the other end.
“But she responded to it,” I continue quietly.
He goes silent for a long moment, then Mason’s tone changes completely. “What happened?”
I lean back against the bike and look up at Liv’s apartment window glowing faintly above the street trying to figure out how to explain a night like this. “Drunk driver didn’t stop for a code three,” I say finally. “Hit the back end of the ambulance.”
“Jesus.”
“One EMT dead on scene as well as the patient.” The words feel heavy in my mouth.
“And Liv?” Mason asks it carefully this time.
I glance up at the window again, still lit. “She’s wrecked,” I admit quietly. “Trying not to be.”