30. Stone
We didn’t have enough time.
The realization hits, sharp and absolute, like my body knows the truth before my mind can catch up. We were supposed to have more. More days. More nights. More of those quiet moments where she looks at me like she’s figuring me out and I pretend I don’t notice.
A couple of months. That’s all it’s been. A blink. A mistake. And somehow she’s my whole fucking life now.
I think about our house — the one we use sometimes, the one that already smells like her without her even trying. I think about telling her we should move in for good. Or buy another place together if she wants something different.
And if she doesn’t like any other house, I’d build one. From the ground up. Exactly the way she wants it.
I see kids that don’t exist yet. Dark hair. Stubborn mouths. Her laugh in the background while I pretend not to watch her. As many kids as she’d give me. As many as she wants. A forever I never let myself imagine until it was already too late.
I want time.
I want all of it.
And it’s slipping through my hands.
“Doc!” I roar. “DOC!”
My voice tears out of me, raw and breaking, and I don’t care who hears it.
I’m on my knees, hands shaking as I clamp down on her side, trying to remember everything I’ve ever been taught and none of it feels like enough. Her skin is already cooling, eyes fluttering, breath shallow and wrong.
“Stay with me,” I beg, forehead pressed to hers. “You hear me? Stay.”
Boots pound around us. Someone shouts. Someone else swears. I don’t look away from her face — not for a second. If I do, I’m convinced she’ll disappear.
Doc hits the floor beside us hard, already moving, already focused.
He’s one of us. Patch on his back, blood on his hands more times than I can count. But underneath that, he’s the real thing — years of training, steady hands, a mind that doesn’t panic. He could’ve had a clean life in a hospital somewhere. White walls. Respect. Normal hours.
Instead, he chose this.
Not because he couldn’t cut it — because he could. But because some men need to belong to something that doesn’t pretend the world is clean.
“Stone,” he says sharply. “Let me see.”
I don’t move.
“Stone.”
I bare my teeth at him. “Fix her.”
“I can’t if you don’t let me work.”
That gets through.
Barely.
I shift just enough for him to get access, my hands still there, still pressing, still unwilling to let go. Doc cuts fabric away fast, efficient, eyes narrowing as he assesses — not surprised, not shaken. Just reading the damage.
I know what a bad gunshot looks like. I’ve seen bodies hit the ground and never get back up.
But this is her.
Logic doesn’t apply.
“She’s bleeding too much, isn’t she?” I say, voice rough. “Tell me she’s not bleeding too much.”
“She’s bleeding,” Doc says calmly. “But not like that.”
He presses harder, checking depth, angle, response. Lex groans — soft, broken — and the sound nearly breaks me in half.
“I’m here,” I tell her desperately. “I’ve got you.”
Doc works fast. Gauze. Pressure. His fingers are methodical, deliberate, checking for the things I don’t want named.
“Bullet went through,” he says. “Didn’t stay in her.”
I swallow hard. “That good or bad?”
“Good,” he answers immediately. “Means it didn’t bounce around.”
“Organs?” I ask. “Anything important?”
He shakes his head once. “Angle’s shallow. Missed the kidney. Missed the liver. No major vessels hit.”
I cling to every word like it’s oxygen.
“She’s in shock,” Doc continues. “Blood loss and fear. We need to get her warm and somewhere clean. Now.”
“Move,” I snap.
“Easy,” Doc says, firm but controlled. “Hold pressure. Don’t move her yet.”
I freeze, every instinct screaming to run.
Doc works fast, hands steady as he packs the wound, layers gauze, tapes it down tight. Not fixing — stabilizing. Enough to keep her from bleeding out. Enough to buy us time.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Now.”
Someone clears space. I scoop her up, careful and clumsy all at once, terrified of jostling her wrong. Her head lolls against my shoulder, breath faint against my neck.
“Stay with me, baby.” I murmur, over and over, like it’s the only thing holding her here.
A car screeches up — one of the prospects, eyes wide, already opening the back door. I climb in with her, pulling her close, keeping pressure where Doc told me to. I don’t let go. Not when the door slams. Not when the engine roars to life.
Doc swings onto his bike instead.
“I’ll beat you there,” he says. “Infirmary’ll be ready.”
Then he’s gone.
The ride back is a blur of motion and noise I barely register. Sirens somewhere in the distance. The road jarring beneath us. I keep my hand on her, feel every shallow breath like proof she’s still here.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Please.”
When we pull into the clubhouse, chaos waits for us.
Ella’s there — pale, frantic, already moving toward us when she sees Lex. “Oh my God—”
Engine catches her by the shoulders before she can reach us. “I’ve got her,” he says gently but firm. “I’ll tell you everything. Not here.”
She looks at me once, fear sharp in her eyes.
I don’t stop.
I carry Lex straight inside, down the hall, into the infirmary where Doc is already snapping gloves on, lights blazing, table cleared.
“Here,” he says. “Easy. Easy.”
We get her down. I stay right there.
Someone tries to pull me back.
“Stone—”
“No,” I say, without looking at them. “I’m not leaving.”
Doc glances up at me, then nods once. “Then don’t get in my way.”
I stand there while he works.
Every second stretches thin enough to snap.
Doc cleans the wound thoroughly, irrigates it, checks and rechecks for bleeding, for swelling, for signs of something worse. He talks as he goes — calm, precise — not for comfort, but because that’s how he keeps control.
“She’s lucky,” he says at one point. “Bullet went through muscle and soft tissue. Clean exit. No bone. No major vessels.”
Lex stirs weakly, a soft sound leaving her throat.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her instantly, leaning closer. “I’m right here.”
Doc starts an IV, fluid flowing. “Pain management. Fluids. Keep her pressure up.”
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
I watch every rise and fall of her chest like it’s the only thing in the world.
“You’re gonna need to let her rest,” Doc says quietly.
“Not going anywhere,” I reply.
He finishes taping the dressing, firm but careful. “She’s not critical,” he adds, meeting my eyes. “She’ll need stitches once the swelling goes down. Antibiotics. Monitoring. But this?” He shakes his head. “This looks worse than it is.”
The words hit me like a blow.
My knees threaten to give out. I grip the edge of the table instead.
“She stays here,” I say.
“She stays here,” Doc agrees. “I’ll check her every hour.”
Good.
Not enough — but good.
Lex’s eyes flutter open just a fraction.
“There you are,” I whisper, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Her fingers twitch, weak but real, curling around mine.
I lose it then.
Just a little.
I bow my head until my forehead rests against her hand, breathing her in, grounding myself in the fact that she’s still warm. Still here. Still mine.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her again, voice breaking. “No one’s taking you anywhere ever again.”
Doc watches us for a moment, then quietly steps back, giving us space.
I don’t move.
I won’t.
Not now. Not ever again.
Because I almost lost her.
And I’m not making that mistake twice.