Chapter Four #2
I pull her into me without hesitating, as if there were never another choice. Her face presses into my shoulder, and her hands fist in my shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
She cries hard. Ugly. Honest. The kind of crying that doesn’t care who hears it. Her body shakes against mine, and it hurts me in a way I wasn’t ready for. I wrap my arms around her tighter, anchoring her there, my chin resting on the top of her head.
Fuck.
This isn’t something I can fix with a joke, a grin or my smart mouth. This is fear, love and the kind of pain that crawls under your skin and stays there.
I hold her. That’s it. That’s all I have. I don’t tell her it’ll be okay because I don’t know if it will. I don’t ask questions. I stay. Let her cry into me. Let her take whatever strength I have and use it.
Someone clears their throat nearby.
I look up, eyes sharp and pissed, and glare so intensely they immediately turn away and act like they were never there.
Good.
I glance toward the desk where the Librarian is watching. I fix her with a look that says, “Try it and see what happens.” If she fucking moves or says a word while my Bells is falling apart in my arms, she’s going to hear about it.
She turns back to her work.
Good.
I tighten my hold on Lola just a little more, one hand sliding up her back, fingers pressing into her sweater. All that matters is the way she fits against me and the fact she trusted me enough to fall apart right here.
“Hey,” I murmur, my mouth close to her hair, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. You hear me? You’re not doing this alone.”
She nods against my chest, breath hitching, fingers still twisted in my shirt. We stay like that for a minute, maybe two—a long enough time for the shaking to ease a little, long enough for her to pull herself together and breathe without breaking down again.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red, lashes clumped, face blotchy. She’s still beautiful. Still my Bells. Just scared as hell.
I don’t say anything; I move.
I grab her bag and toss the remaining items off the table into it. I even pick up the highlighter from the floor. None of it is neat or careful. I don’t care about order right now. I sling the bag over my shoulder, and gently guide her toward the door with my free hand at her back.
“Come on,” I say.
She pauses before we reach the exit and looks up at me. Her eyes are wide and scared, searching my face as if she’s bracing for me to disappear.
“Jace…” Her voice cracks on my name.
“We’ll go see your dad,” I say firmly, leaving no room for doubt. “We’ll hear what the doctors have to say.”
Her brow furrows, disbelief flickering through the fear. “You’re coming with me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I respond with zero hesitation.
She doesn’t argue, question it, or resist. She just nods and allows me to guide her.
And that tells me everything about how bad this really is.
Because Bells always argues.
I push the door open and lead her out, already planning the quickest way to her car and mentally ready to handle whatever comes next. My cock, my attitude, and my usual bullshit all get pushed aside. None of that matters.
What matters is the girl next to me, trembling but moving, trusting me enough to keep walking anyway.
And there’s no way I’m going to let her do this alone.
I pull her out of the library and into the afternoon air, the door swinging shut behind us. The sun’s too bright. The world’s too loud. She doesn’t say a word the entire way across the lot, simply walks beside me on autopilot.
I stop at the car and turn to her. “Give me your keys. You can’t drive like this.”
Lola hesitates for half a second, her eyes glassy, then nods. Her fingers shake as I take the keys from her. Her breath is ragged and shallow, her chest rising too quickly, panic creeping back in.
I walk over and open the passenger side door for her, holding it open as she gets in.
I circle back to the driver’s side, toss the bag onto the back seat, and slide in, adjusting the seat for my legs. Muscle memory takes over. Belt on. Key in.
The car hums to life.
I glance at her. She’s staring straight ahead; hands folded in her lap. Tears sit on her lashes behind her glasses. I reach across without thinking and place my hand over hers.
“I’ve got you,” I say again, quieter now.
She nods once.
I pull out of the lot and head onto the road, jaw clenched, focus sharp.
The hospital is twenty minutes away, but each second seems slow and heavy.
The silence in the car is deafening—not the kind that needs fixing, but the kind that weighs down on you and makes you afraid to breathe wrong.
She curls against the door, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around herself tightly.
Her forehead rests against the window. I can’t see her face, but I don’t need to; I know she’s crying again.
Not knowing what to say, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
I’ve never been good at this part. I’ve always walked away when someone cried because it pulls me straight back to that day.
Nine years old. My mom dropping me off at my aunt’s house.
The door closing behind her. Me crying and begging to go with her.
That helpless, breaking feeling in my chest while my damn aunt stood there reminding me I wasn’t wanted.
That was the day I learned to shut shit off.
To go cold. To survive by not feeling anything at all.
But this is different.
This is Bells. And every instinct in me tells me not to let her face it alone.
The engine hums as I turn onto the main road, tires softly thudding over the cracks in the asphalt. Everything outside the car feels too normal—people walking and cars passing by.
Lola’s phone buzzes on the center console.
She doesn’t move.
I glance down without meaning to. Aubrey’s name appears on the screen.
Aubrey: Hey, didn’t see you today?
She has no idea the world has just shifted for Bells. No idea there’s a hospital waiting at the end of this drive.
We pull into the hospital parking lot, and I kill the engine. I’m by her side before she reaches for the handle.
“Come on,” I say.
She slides out slowly, movements stiff and cautious, as if her body suddenly feels twice as heavy.
I take her hand.
She wraps her fingers around mine and grips tight. That’s when it really hits me. She needs me.
I guide her toward the entrance, past the automatic doors that whoosh open a little too cheerfully for a place like this. Everything inside smells sterile and sharp. Too clean. Too quiet. Her grip tightens on my hand as we approach the front desk.
“Hi,” she says, voice trembling but still steady. “My name’s Lola Bellamy. My dad… Pete Bellamy. He was brought in.”
The desk clerk types quickly, her eyes scanning the screen. Her expression softens the moment she spots the name.
“He’s in the ICU,” she says gently. “Take the elevators to the fourth floor, then turn left. Room two-seventeen.”
Lola nods, and for a moment I think she might actually crumple right there in the middle of the hospital lobby.
I guide her to the elevators and press the button, angling my body close enough to block out the rest of the world. People brush past. Voices echo. None of it touches her.
We enter the elevator, and the doors close behind us.
That’s when she finally speaks.
“I hate hospitals.”
I look over at her.
She’s gone pale, freckles standing out against skin that’s drained of color. Her eyes are glassy, fixed on nothing. She swallows hard, as if the words are fighting their way up.
“My mom died in one when I was little,” she says softly. “I hardly remember her. Just fragments. But I remember this. The white. The beeping. The smell.”
She looks up at me with wet eyes, and whatever she sees there must be enough, because she allows me to wrap my arms around her and hold her against my chest.
Her forehead presses into my collarbone. My chin rests on the top of her head. Her breath shakes, before it evens out, little by little. I hold her tighter, because I don’t know how to be gentle but I know how to be unmovable.
This is new for me. Holding someone when they hurt. Staying when everything in my past tells me to shut it the fuck down and walk away.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open, dropping us back into noise, fluorescent light, and reality. I don’t let go immediately. I wait until she shifts first, until she’s ready to stand on her own again.
Then I place my hand in hers and intertwine our fingers.
The ICU is quiet. Quiet in a way that crawls under your skin and dares you to breathe too loudly.
Everything’s hushed. Voices sound clipped.
Shoes squeak softly against polished floors.
Machines hum and beep behind glass walls as nurses move with practiced care, speaking in whispers as if sound itself might break something.
We pass room after room, each one similar yet different. People suspended in that awful space between here and somewhere else. I keep my hand locked around hers, my thumb gently rubbing slow circles across her knuckles like muscle memory knows what to do even if my head doesn’t.
Room two-seventeen is at the end of the hall.
Lola’s steps slow as we get closer. Her grip tightens until it almost hurts.
When we get to the door, she comes to a sudden stop. Her breath catches.
I follow her gaze.
Through the glass, I see him. Her dad.
The big guy with the laugh that carries. The one who shows up to every school event with a smile. The man who cooks as if food is love and makes space for everyone around him.
Now he’s lying flat on a hospital bed.
Machines surround him. Tubes run into his arms. Wires cling to his head. His chest rises and falls only because a ventilator controls it. His face is pale and unfamiliar, as if someone turned the volume down on him and forgot to turn it back up.
“Oh my god,” Lola says, before a sob escapes from her chest.
A doctor exits the room, clipboard in hand, with a calm face in that practiced way that makes my skin crawl. People in coats always appear like this. Steady. Neutral. As if they’re trained not to feel the weight of what they’re about to say.
“Lola,” he says softly. “You’re Pete’s daughter?”
She nods.
“I’m Dr. Reeve,” he says. “Your father collapsed at a job site. One of the other workers found him unconscious. He was brought in quickly, which helps. But he’s had a severe stroke.”
Lola sways, just a fraction, and I step closer without thinking, my arm coming around her back, solid and sure. She leans into me.
“What does that mean?” she asks, voice trembling. “Is he… Is he…”
Alive. Say he’s fucking alive.
“He’s stable right now,” the doctor says. “He’s in a medically induced coma to reduce swelling. We’re monitoring him closely.”
Lola’s breath breaks.
“We won’t know the full extent of the damage yet,” the Doctor continues. “The next forty-eight hours are critical.”
Critical. Another fucking word I hate.
Lola nods again, tears falling freely now. “Can I see him?”
“Yes,” the doctor says. “But just for a few minutes.”
He moves aside to allow her to walk into the room.
She hesitates for just a moment, as if she’s afraid that once she walks through that door, everything will become real in a way she can’t undo. I squeeze her hand.
“I’m right here,” I murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks up at me and nods before stepping into the room and moving to the side of the bed. Her fingers tremble as she reaches for her dad’s hand. She speaks to him in a soft rush of words I can’t hear, forehead pressed to his knuckles, tears falling onto the sheets.
The world has finally managed to break her and take all that sunshine she carries.
Dr. Reeve stands near the door, examining something on the chart. I watch Lola for another second, then turn to him.
“Hey, Doc,” I say.
He looks up.
“Be straight with me. Is he gonna pull through this?”
He examines my face for a moment, probably assessing how much truth I can handle. “It’s hard to tell,” he finally says. “Everyone reacts differently to a stroke this severe. Age, overall health, how quickly treatment started. There are just too many variables.”
“So that’s a…” I say.
“That’s a wait and see,” he says gently. “The next couple of days will tell us more. The best thing you can do right now is be there for Lola. She’s going to need that more than anything. If he pulls through, the road to recovery will be long.”
I nod, knowing that’s all I can do.
He gives me a small, approving look, then he quietly steps away, leaving us alone with the machines and the low hum of the room.
I turn my attention back to Lola.
She’s still holding her dad’s hand, talking to him as if he were able to respond.