9. Brayden
brAYDEN
“Hey, My! How’re you feeling?” I dropped into the uncomfortable plastic chair beside Myla’s bed, the same one that had molded to my ass from weeks of use. Hospitals had a way of feeling both temporary and endless—like time didn’t quite behave inside their walls.
Her baby blues fluttered open, lashes heavy against her pale skin. A small, crooked smile fought its way onto her face. “Like I got hit by a truck.” Then, because she couldn’t resist, she half coughed, half laughed at her own joke.
I tried to smile back, but my throat tightened. “At least your sense of humor survived.”
“Barely,” she rasped, adjusting her pillow. Her voice was still hoarse from the ventilator. “So, what’s the torture plan today?”
“Physical therapy again morning.” I said it gently, but I saw the flicker of fear cross her face before she could hide it.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, her arms trembling. “They’re going to make me fucking walk, Bray.”
“Not today.” I reached for her hand. Her fingers were cold, fragile against my calloused palm. “They’re just teaching you how to use crutches, okay? No weight on that leg yet. Baby steps—literally.”
Myla rolled her eyes, but I caught the shimmer of tears she tried to blink away.
Before I could say anything else, a voice boomed from the doorway. “No walking yet, that’s for sure.”
We both turned to see a mountain of a man with skin the color of espresso and a grin bright enough to light the whole damn room. His ID badge read Darren, PT, but he looked more like a linebacker than a medical professional.
“I’m Darren,” he said warmly as he stepped inside. “I’ll be your physical therapist today. How’re we feeling, Myla?”
She lifted her chin, pretending not to wince as she adjusted the blanket over her cast. “Ready to get this done.” Her voice was soft, but the grit behind it nearly undid me.
That was my sister—tiny but tenacious. I felt my chest swell with pride, the kind that hurts a little because you’d give anything to take their pain for them.
“That’s the spirit,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss her cheek before standing.
Her fingers caught mine before I could pull away. “Stay.”
I froze. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But she had made me promise weeks ago not to hover even when she begged me to. That’s when I looked at her with pity, it made everything worse. I squeezed her hand once and shook my head. “You got this, My. You’re tougher than both of us put together.”
Her lip trembled, but she let go. “Liar,” she mumbled.
I smiled faintly. “Always.”
Still, I lingered in the doorway, watching as Darren helped her adjust the crutches.
She gritted her teeth through the first attempt to sit up, a soft cry slipping out when the movement tugged on her stitches.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt, but I stayed quiet.
Darren knelt beside her, his tone calm, steady.
He didn’t rush her. He didn’t flinch at her frustration.
He treated her like a person, not a patient—and that eased the knot in my chest just enough for me to breathe again.
I wasn’t sure when I’d started measuring time in Myla’s pain—each minute by how many tears she shed, each hour by how many deep breaths she took to steady herself.
It still haunted me, the phone call that night.
The hospital’s voice on the other end. The words accident, critical, mother deceased.
I hadn’t made it to the crash site. I’d only seen the aftermath—Myla broken, bandaged, barely recognizable. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes, I could still smell the antiseptic mixed with blood. Still hear the doctors shouting over the monitors.
Now, weeks later, the beeping was slower, softer. But the guilt didn’t fade. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected her. I should’ve—
“Mr. Cox?”
I blinked. Darren was looking at me. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Just… thinking.”
“About the game?” he teased.
“Something like that.”
He nodded toward Myla. “She’s stronger than she knows. You both are.”
That hit harder than he probably meant it to.
I gave a nod and forced myself to leave, knowing she’d need to find her fight without me watching every step. The sound of her soft curses followed me out into the hall, but so did the faint echo of her laughter when she managed to balance upright for two whole seconds.
It was progress. It was everything.