12. Jonah
JONAH
I've never understood the phrase “blood runs cold” until this moment, standing in the emergency room waiting area with Lila's blood drying on my hands.
It's rust-colored now, flaking at the creases of my knuckles.
One minute she was filming a tornado, the next she was crumpling to the ground, a sheet of corrugated metal slicing through her upper arm like it was nothing.
The nurse behind the desk keeps shooting disapproving glances at Max, who sits pressed against my leg.
Hospital policy clearly states “No Animals Except Service Dogs” on the laminated sign on the wall, but I'd like to see someone try to separate us right now.
When I carried Lila's unconscious body through those automatic doors, Max followed like a shadow, and I wasn't about to argue with either of them.
“Sir, I really must insist—” the nurse begins again, gesturing toward Max.
“He stays,” I growl. I clear my throat, trying for a more reasonable tone.
Max whines softly, his brown eyes fixed on the double doors where they took Lila two-hundred and sixty-six minutes ago. I know the exact timing because I've been staring at my watch, counting each excruciating minute as it passes.
The waiting room is surprisingly empty tonight considering the massive outbreak of severe weather in the area. The radar on Lila’s truck kept going off every few minutes, the closer I got to the nearest hospital.
I check my phone for what must be the twentieth time, trying to distract myself from the growing dread in my stomach. Five missed calls from Lucas. Three texts asking about our location and weather data. None of that matters.
“Brooks?”
I look up to see a doctor in blue scrubs approaching, her expression unreadable. Max immediately stands at attention beside me.
“Yes, that's me,” I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “How is she? Her arm…”
“I know,” the doctor interrupts gently. “I'm Dr. Patel. Ms. Brooks is stable. The laceration was deep but missed any major arteries, thankfully. She required twenty-seven stitches, and we've given her fluids for the blood loss. She has a minor concussion. We’d like to keep her overnight just to be safe.”
The relief that floods through me is so powerful my knees nearly buckle. “Can I see her?”
Dr. Patel hesitates, glancing down at Max. “About your dog...”
“He's not actually—” I start to explain, then stop myself. “I don’t have anywhere I can take him. Please.”
Something in my face must convey the desperation I feel because she sighs. “Five minutes. And he stays on the floor.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
I follow Dr. Patel through the double doors, Max padding silently beside me. The doctor's shoes squeak against the polished linoleum as she leads us past rooms with partially drawn curtains. Behind each one, someone's life has been interrupted by a crisis or catastrophe. Now Lila is among them.
“She's a bit groggy from the pain medication,” Dr. Patel warns as we approach a room near the end of the hall
I nod, suddenly nervous. What will I say to her? Nothing seems adequate.
When we enter the room, my breath catches.
Lila looks smaller somehow, propped against white hospital pillows.
Her wild curls are tangled around her face, and her normally vibrant skin appears pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Her right arm is heavily bandaged and elevated on a pillow. An IV snakes into her left hand.
Max whines softly beside me, his entire body quivering with the effort of not leaping onto the bed.
“Five minutes,” Dr. Patel reminds me quietly before stepping out.
I approach the bed carefully, like any sudden move might break something fragile between us. “Hey,” I manage, the word coming out rough.
Lila’s gaze drifts open, unfocused at first, then sharpens as she recognizes me. A slow, uneven smile pulls at her lips.
“You look terrible,” she croaks, her words scratchy from the medication.
“Me? You’re the one in the hospital bed.” I step closer, relief making me a little unsteady.
“Yeah, but at least I have an excuse.” She lifts her good arm in a weak attempt to gesture at me. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a tornado. Oh wait…” Her laugh cuts off with a wince.
I don’t smile. I can’t. The image of her collapsing, blood soaking through her shirt, is too fresh in my mind.
“That’s not funny, Lila.”
My voice comes out low and tight.
Because all I can think about is her going limp in my arms while I tried to keep pressure on the wound. The amount of blood. The terror clawing through my chest when her eyes drifted shut and she stopped answering me for those few horrible minutes.
It shouldn’t affect me this much, but it does. The thought of losing her hits me with a level of panic I can’t fully process.
“It’s a little funny.” She shifts, grimacing. “Come on, Professor. Gallows humor, remember? Comes with the job.”
Max lets out a loud whine, unable to hold back any longer. His front paws lift before he forces them down again, trembling with the effort.
“Someone’s worried about you.”
Lila softens as she looks at him. “Hey, buddy.”
At the sound of her words, Max inches forward until his nose touches the edge of the bed. He whimpers, low and aching, and it tightens something in my chest.
“Can he...?” Lila looks at me questioningly.
“Doctor said no dogs on the medical equipment. Maybe just his head?” I suggest noticing how Lila's eyes brighten at Max's presence. “I don't think anyone would begrudge a therapy dog moment.”
Lila nods, patting the edge of the mattress with her good hand. Max needs no further invitation—he gently places his chin on the bed, his tail wagging tentatively as Lila's fingers find his ears. The relief on both their faces is so palpable it makes my throat tight.
“So,” Lila says, her voice raspy but stronger than before, “you drove my truck.”
“I did.”
“Without permission.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Fair point.” She shifts , wincing. “How'd she handle for you?”
“Better than expected,” I admit. “Though I may have exceeded the speed limit by a significant margin.”
“Professor Reed breaking traffic laws? I'm shocked.”
“Yes, well.” I clear my throat. “Extenuating circumstances.”
Her smile fades, replaced by something more serious. “Thank you. For getting me here.”
I look down at my hands, stained with her blood despite my attempts to wash it off. “I should have been out there with you. If I'd been paying attention to the debris field instead of?—”
“Stop,” Lila interrupts. “Weather happens. Metal flies. Sometimes it hits storm chasers. Occupational hazard.”
I shake my head, unwilling to accept her dismissal. “You were right about me. I have no business being out there.”
“Hey.” Her good hand reaches for mine, warm fingers wrapping around my bloodstained ones. “Look at me.”
I reluctantly meet her gaze.
“You did everything right today,” she says firmly. “Most people would’ve panicked. You didn’t. You got me to safety and drove like a bat out of hell to the nearest hospital. That’s not nothing.”
Her praise makes something twist painfully in my chest, because she has no idea how close I came to completely falling apart.
She didn’t see my hands shaking on the steering wheel hard enough I could barely keep control of the truck. Didn’t hear me talking to her the entire drive because I was terrified if she stopped answering me, she wouldn’t start again.
And she definitely doesn’t know that somewhere between the bleeding and the sirens, I started praying to a God I’m not even sure I believe in anymore.
Not for myself. For her.
“I was scared,” I admit quietly. The words feel too exposed the second they leave my mouth. “When you passed out…” My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I thought?—”
I can’t finish it. Because even sitting here now with her alive and talking and stubbornly trying to joke through the pain, the memory hits like a fist to the ribs.
Lila’s expression softens immediately.
And before I can retreat back behind logic or composure, her fingers slide carefully over mine where my hand rests beside the hospital bed.
The contact is gentle. Warm. Completely devastating.
“You didn’t lose me, Jonah,” she says softly.
But the thing is…for a few horrible minutes out there in the storm, I thought I already had.
She squeezes my hand, then winces as the movement pulls at her IV. “Takes more than some flying metal to get rid of me.”
Max lets out a soft huff like he agrees. His attention hasn’t left her since we walked in.
A nurse appears in the doorway, tapping her watch. “Time’s up.”
“Five more minutes,” I add, the authority in my tone catching both of us off guard.
The nurse hesitates, glancing between Lila and me. Something in my expression must land, because she sighs and nods. “Five minutes. That’s it.”
When the nurse leaves, Lila lifts a brow at me, the corner of her mouth curving despite the exhaustion written across her face.
“Well, well. Professor has a backbone after all.” Her eyes drift lazily over me. “Do you use that tone in the lecture hall? Because it’s working for you.”
Even injured and medicated, she somehow finds ways to completely dismantle my nervous system.
“The medication is clearly affecting your judgment,” I mutter.
Lila smiles faintly, slow and knowing. “Mm. Maybe. Or maybe you’re just hot when you stop apologizing for existing.”
I exhale quietly through my nose, looking away before she notices how hard that lands. Unfortunately, when I glance back, she’s already watching me with obvious amusement. God help me.
My gaze drifts toward the bandage wrapped around her arm, bright white against her skin. The sight makes something twist painfully in my chest.
“Does it hurt much?”
Her teasing expression softens .
“Less now.” She shifts carefully against the pillows. “Mostly feels like I got in a knife fight with a tornado and lost.”
“That isn’t funny.”