Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
MARLOWE
The late afternoon sun slants low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the hospital room. It filters through the blinds, soft and warm, but it only makes the stillness worse. The quiet presses in on me, too calm, too sterile. My heart kicks up, restless and tight.
How bad is the bakery? My apartment? The questions pile up, one after another, each one heavier than the last. Is everything gone? Is there anything left?
The nurses said they were going to start the discharge paperwork soon, told us to rest while they got things ready. That was hours ago. No one ever came back. No updates. No answers. Just this awful waiting.
I can’t take it anymore.
My hand throbs where the IV needle sits, taped down like I’m some fragile thing. I stare at it for a second, then yank it free. Pain flares bright and sharp as the line snaps out, leaving a sting behind. Blood beads up and I press down on it, teeth clenched, breath catching in my throat.
The oxygen tubes are next. I peel them off, the plastic tugging against raw skin beneath my nose. The air suddenly feels heavier, more real.
I swing my legs off the bed. My bare feet touch the cold floor and it’s pure ice, sudden, bracing, and real. My body aches, my lungs burn, and my heart is still a mess, but I can’t lie here another second.
I glance across the room.
"Neve,” I say, my voice rasping like gravel, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”
She blinks at me from her bed, a tangled mess of hospital blankets and soot smudges. Then she grins. “I’m right behind you.”
I look down. Shit. We’re still in hospital gowns. Thin, stiff fabric that barely covers anything and does nothing against the cold air licking at our skin. “Where the hell are our clothes?” I whisper.
Neve stumbles toward the small closet near the bathroom, yanks it open, and pulls out a plastic bag.
It crinkles loudly in the quiet. Inside are our clothes, wrinkled and smoky.
The scent hits instantly—fire, ash, and fear soaked into every thread.
I recognize my sleep shirt and my barely-there shorts.
“This is what we wore to bed,” Neve mutters, her nose scrunching. “It smells like a firefighter’s armpit.”
I grab my things, shoving them on as quickly as my sore limbs allow. The shirt sticks to my skin and the shorts are stiff and singed. But I don’t care. I need out.
I slip into the hallway, quiet as I can manage on aching feet and adrenaline.
The nurses’ station is around the corner, humming with voices.
I drop low and crawl under the windows, the linoleum cold against my palms. Neve follows right behind me.
We reach the elevators and I look over my shoulder at Neve.
“Those shorts are really short. If I wasn’t traumatized before, I definitely am now,” Neve whispers.
I glance back at her and instantly regret it.
Her shorts are barely hanging on, and she’s tied her hospital gown in a knot at her waist, but it’s still gaping open in front from the way she’s crawling.
I get a full view down her chest—boobs, nipples, and what looks suspiciously like a lollipop tattoo.
“Oh yeah,” I hiss. “And your tits are out.” I cough out a laugh that tastes like smoke. “We’re Girls Gone Wild: ICU Edition.”
She adjusts the knot, tucks one side under her armpit, and hacks out a laugh, “Shit. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now we’re both emotionally scarred,” I say, reaching up and jabbing the elevator button, silently praying it doesn’t take forever. A single heartbeat passes, and then the doors slide open like they’ve been waiting just for us.
“Thank God,” I mutter, grabbing Neve’s arm and hauling her inside. The doors slide shut, and I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours.
On the main floor, we step out, heads down, trying to blend in like two totally normal, not-busted-up women who definitely haven’t just escaped medical care. And then I see him.
Nathan.
He’s slumped in a chair in the waiting area, elbows on his knees, head hung low. His hoodie is pulled tight around his shoulders like he’s been there for hours. Like he’s still waiting. My chest stutters. He stayed?
I step closer, just enough to call out under my breath. “Nathan.”
His head jerks up. His eyes go wide the second he sees us. He stands fast, his body snapping into motion. Shit, he is waiting for me. His gaze hits my face first, then drops. I watch the flicker in his eyes as they trail down—slow, heated—and settle on my legs.
My sleep clothes don’t cover much. His throat bobs. His mouth opens like he wants to say something but can’t decide if he should.
Something twists in my stomach.
“What the hell are you two doing?” he finally blurts out.
Neve grins, completely unfazed. “We’re busting out of here. Obviously.”
He turns to me again, panic replacing whatever heat had flashed in his eyes. “But are you okay to leave?”
I blink. “You stayed?”
His cheeks flush, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, of course. I was worried about you.”
I can’t even find the words. Something hot crawls up my throat, and I don’t know if it’s gratitude or guilt or the sudden memory of his eyes on my thighs. “Can you drive us home?” I ask.
He nods immediately. “Yeah, come on.”
I follow him toward the exit, the soles of my bare feet sticking slightly to the tile, my legs aching with every step.
Nathan walks just ahead, his pace slow and steady, the arrogant walk of a self-proclaimed hero.
There’s something almost hopeful in the way he moves, like this ride home could mean something more—like maybe staying at the hospital erased everything that came before.
But it didn’t. And I can’t let him think it did.
We hit the automatic doors, and I reach out, brushing my fingers against his arm to stop him. He turns, startled by the touch.
“But it’s only a ride home, Nathan,” I say softly. “Nothing else.”
His eyes flicker. Just for a second. Something in his expression cracks then tries to hold itself together. “You love him? That tattooed guy?” he asks.
I look away, not because I’m ashamed, but because thinking about Damian right now hurts. “It’s not about him,” I say. “You and me… we didn’t work. You left, Nathan. You didn’t want me anymore. And I—” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I deserve someone who does.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to spin it. He just nods, slow and quiet, and walks through the doors.
The drive is short, but it feels like forever.
Nathan doesn’t talk. The engine hums under us, tires hissing against wet pavement as we cut through the quiet streets.
I sit in the back with Neve, both of us wrapped in the stink of smoke and sweat, coughing every few minutes like our lungs can’t forget what we’ve breathed in.
The taste of fire clings to the back of my throat—bitter, acrid, metallic.
Ash and fear. That’s what it tastes like.
My heart punches harder the closer we get. I try to brace for it. Try to picture the damage so I won’t fall apart when I see it.
But I don’t come close.
We pull up in front of the bakery, and everything inside me caves in.
The building is a skeleton. Blackened brick and twisted metal. The windows are gone, shattered and scorched, and the door barely clings to its hinges. The sign is half-melted. What’s left of my apartment above it has collapsed, the floor caved in and swallowed by the ruins beneath it.
It looks like it was devoured.
Everything I’ve ever worked for—gone. Everything I built with my bare hands. The counters I stained, the shelves I painted, the tiny stupid flowerpots I lined up on the windowsill just to make it feel like home. Gone.
My breath catches somewhere deep in my chest and doesn’t come back. There’s this sound clawing its way up my throat, raw and ugly, and I barely recognize it as mine. A broken, guttural sob that scrapes like gravel.
Tears burn behind my eyes, but they don’t fall.
I’m too angry. Too gutted.
It’s not just a place. It was my life. My only safe space. My only real thing. And now it’s ashes.
I step out of the car, and the moment my bare feet hit the pavement, I wince. The ground is littered with shards of glass, pebbles, and debris. Each step feels like punishment—sharp, stabbing pain shooting up my legs, but I keep going. I don’t stop.
I have to see it up close.
My feet bleed, but I barely register it. My stomach twists into a violent knot, and I grab at it instinctively, fingers curling into the soft cotton of my shirt like that’ll stop the nausea rolling through me.
The smell of char and soaked ash clings to everything. It thickens the air, mixes with the sound of a still-dripping water and the distant low murmur of firefighters who haven’t packed up yet.
There’s yellow police tape stretched across what used to be my front door. It's fluttering in the wind like a sick joke. My home. My entire fucking life. Caged off in a crime scene.
I can’t breathe.
It starts slow—tightness in my chest, the edges of my vision squeezing inward. Then comes the spinning. The weight. The full-body ache that turns to panic. My lungs feel too small, too shallow. I press my hand harder into my stomach, praying I don’t vomit again.
“Lo,” Neve whispers behind me, clutching onto my shoulder. It’s the only thing keeping me upright. “Breathe. You have to breathe.”
I try. I can’t.
Then I hear it. Tires screeching. A car engine roaring like thunder.
Damian’s black SUV comes tearing down the block, fast and reckless, like it’s being driven by a madman. He slams the brakes. Tires scream. The engine cuts out in a jolt, and the door flings open before the car even fully stops.
And then he’s there.
He looks at the bakery. At me. Back at the bakery.
His face crumples with panic. Raw terror. His eyes widen in horror, mouth parting like he forgot how to breathe.
But it’s not just the expression that knocks the breath out of me. It’s his face.