Chapter Six #2
Her body goes still for a breath, surprise flickering through her shoulders. Then she leans back into me.
And it feels natural.
Easy.
As if this is where I’ve always stood.
Her back presses against my chest. She fits there—too well. My hands rest low on her stomach, thumbs brushing the fabric of her sweater. I feel the shaky inhale she tries to control, the way she steadies herself.
“You don’t have to be tough all the time,” I murmur.
She exhales a breath that nearly turns into a laugh. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just… functioning.”
Another tear slips free, and this time she wipes it away with her fingers.
“Bells.”
She huffs quietly. “It’s just weird. One minute he’s here, humming off-key and burning the bacon, and the next…” Her voice thins. “It’s quiet.”
“Do you want me to go with you today?” I ask.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
She shifts slightly in my arms to look at me. “What about school?”
I shrug. “School will survive without me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I say, lifting my hand and wiping a tear from her cheek with the pad of my finger. “Most days I only show up to scope out who I’m going to fuck in the third-floor bathroom anyway.”
She jerks in my hold. “Gross.”
“What?” I grin. “Honesty’s a good quality.”
“That is not honesty. That’s a cry for help.”
“My cock disagrees.”
“Jace.”
“What? I’m reforming.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And yet here I am, Bells, offering to give up my exciting academic career to walk with you into places you’d rather not go alone.”
Her expression relaxes slightly as she takes a deep breath.
“Bells, if you want me to come with you today, I will.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
She searches my face for a second before she nods, eyes shining.
“Thanks.”
We quietly eat our toast.
The coffee tastes like shit, but we still drink it. She watches me over the rim of her mug—studying me as if she’s trying to decide whether I am about to say something stupid.
“You know,” I say, setting my mug down, “I noticed something.”
“Oh no.”
I almost smile at that. “You haven’t told Sam or Aubrey about your dad.”
Her shoulders go tight.
“I would have seen them by now if you had,” I continue. “They would be here, hovering, bringing blankets and tea, asking seventeen questions, doing that intense girl comfort stuff where nobody actually breathes.”
She gazes into her coffee.
“That’s because I didn’t tell them,” she says softly. “Not because I don’t love them.”
I wait for her to continue.
“But they have been distant,” she admits. “I noticed it more after Sam got with Reece. They just… don’t have time for me anymore I guess.”
The words are cautious, but they still hurt.
“And I don’t blame them,” she adds quickly. “They have their person now. I get that. I really do. It just…” Her voice wavers. “Sucks.”
I nod slowly.
I understand it better than anyone. I’ve been alone most of my life. That shit is familiar.
“You feel alone,” I say.
She nods without looking at me.
“You’re not alone, Bells,” I tell her.
She finally raises her eyes.
“You’re not,” I repeat. “You still have them. Even if they are distracted. And you have me.”
She swallows hard before smiling. “But you’re such a pain in the ass.”
I smirk as I grab my coffee and finish the last of it.
The hospital smells the same as it did yesterday. Bleach. Antiseptic. Sadness. It hits the back of my throat the moment the doors slide open. It’s the kind of smell that tells you nobody comes here for good reasons.
Lola walks next to me, her hands tucked into her hoodie sleeves, shoulders slightly hunched as if she’s bracing for a hit. As if the building itself might throw a punch at her.
Her hair is pulled into a loose braid down her back. It’s not neat. Strands fall freely around her face, soft against her skin. She has no gloss on her lips, no mascara darkening her lashes, and no effort to impress anyone.
She looks perfect. Real.
Her jaw is set in that stubborn way she does when she’s trying not to fall apart. Her fingers tighten inside the sleeves of her hoodie. I can see the tension in her even when she’s pretending she’s fine.
I want to reach for her hand, but I don’t. Instead, I walk close enough that our shoulders brush with each step.
We walk through the double doors into the ICU, toward Room 217.
Lola slows down as soon as we reach it.
Through the narrow glass window, I see her dad. Still hooked up to machines. Monitors that blink, hum, and track things nobody should have to think about.
We step inside.
A nurse stands beside the bed, adjusting something on the monitor. She looks up when we enter and offers a small smile.
“He’s been responding,” she says. “It’s early, but it’s promising.”
Lola goes completely still.
“You mean,” she says carefully, “he’s better today?”
The nurse nods. “We are reducing the sedation. His vitals are improving. His brain scans are showing progress. It is slow, but it’s good.
” She moves over and writes something in a file.
“He is not out of the woods yet.” She looks up, closes the folder.
“There are no guarantees. But this is encouraging.”
Lola stares at her dad. Her hands tremble at her sides. I see it—the tiny shake in her fingers, the way her shoulders lift as if she forgot how to breathe.
“I thought,” she says, voice breaking, “I thought I would come in here today and it would be worse.”
Her eyes fill fast with tears.
I step closer on instinct but stop myself before I touch her.
The nurse exits, the door softly clicking shut with that gentle hospital politeness.
As Lola pulls the chair closer and sits beside her dad, I stay back, pressed against the wall. Arms folded, as if I belong in the shadows of this moment.
She takes his hand, her fingers curling around his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I feel it. That love. I have never seen anything like it. Love that’s big and steady.
I don’t understand this kind of love or what it’s like to sit beside someone and look at them as if losing them would rip your heart out. It makes me aware of every empty space in my own history.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You missed out on top-tier cuisine this morning.” Her thumb rubs over his knuckles.
“I made toast. Burned it too. Even the coffee tasted like absolute shit.” Her voice wobbles, but she pushes through it.
“You would have complained about it. Told me I should stick to cereal.” She lets out a laugh, but it’s not the usual one that I love.
This one is strained. “I am scared,” she admits.
The words hit hard in the sterile room.
“I don’t know what I am doing without you.” Her grip tightens around his hand. “You better wake up soon because I cannot survive on toast.” She smiles. “I love you, Dad.” She rests her head on the back of his hand. “Please come back to me.”
Time moves differently in this room. The first hour crawls. The second one disappears entirely.
I stay against the wall while she talks to him. About school. About stupid shit that shouldn’t matter but somehow does. Her voice rises and falls. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she cries.
The machines keep score like some morbid soundtrack.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I watch her more than I watch him—the way she smooths his hair back from his forehead, the way she straightens the blanket as if he can feel it, and the way she keeps talking because the silence feels too loud.
She is too good for this place. She’s light, loyal, and stubbornly hopeful.
And me. I’m a guy who scopes out chicks and acts like his cock is a personality trait. The only good thing in my life is sitting just three feet away from me. And I will mess it up. I know it, because that’s what I do. I break things before they can break me.
It's not an if. It’s a when.
The moment I shove through the back door of the diner, I know I am screwed.
The smell hits first. Grease. Burnt oil. Coffee that has been sitting too long. The sound of plates clattering and orders being barked from the front.
I glance at the clock on the wall.
Five minutes late. Just five. But in Wes’s world, that’s practically treason.
“Cooper!” he yells before I even take two steps toward the apron rack. “You got a damn watch, or do I need to tattoo a clock on your fucking forehead?”
I grab an apron and yank it over my head. “Afternoon to you too, boss,” I mutter, tying the straps tight around my back.
Wes stomps after me, all six feet of sweat, rage, and fry grease. His face is already red, and the shift has barely begun.
“You think just because you’re you, you can stroll in whenever the fuck you want?” he snaps.
“No, sir.”
“You think the customers wait for your sorry ass to show up?”
“No, sir.”
He steps directly into my space, close enough that I can smell stale coffee and nicotine on his breath. “You think this place runs on your charm?”
I let a beat pass. “That would explain the low standards.”
His eye twitches.
“You smart mouth little shit.”
“You asked,” I mutter quietly.
His glare sharpens. “You got something else to say?”
“No... Just admiring your leadership style. It’s very inspiring.”
He stares at me, eyes narrowing into slits.
“Out back. Now,” he barks. “You’re on the grill. Don’t speak. Don’t think. Don’t even breathe.” He slaps a dirty towel against my chest hard enough to make me step back. “Move, Cooper, before I decide you’re scrubbing toilets for the rest of the week.”
I head toward the back window where the grill station faces the small heat lamp and the service ledge that can barely hold two plates without threatening to fall.
The order tickets are piling up. Wes swears from somewhere near the fryers.
The tray of half-wilted burger buns next to me is stacked too high. One wrong move with my elbow, and the whole thing will come crashing down.
Grease pops against my forearm. I don’t flinch. Instead, I fall into a rhythm. Flip. Press. Season. Slide to the ledge.
Minutes blend together. Orders pile up. The bell rings. Wes yells. Someone drops a plate outside and curses loudly enough for everyone in the diner to hear. Wes yells again.
Aubrey walks in with a stack of plates balanced against her hip.
At first, she doesn’t see me.
Her black hair is tied back, her expression focused, as she moves quickly to dump the plates into the gray plastic tub. She scrapes leftovers into the bin with sharp, efficient motions.
When she finally turns and sees me there behind the grill, her face falls flat.
No smile.
Just that look.
She doesn’t like me. Not even a little. Never has. She knows what I am. The guy you warn your friends about.
“Aubrey, you got a sec?” I ask, flipping a burger before it burns.
“No,” she replies instantly.
“It’s important,” I tell her.
“So is getting food out before the old guy at table six dies of starvation.”
I glance toward the pass. “He looks sturdy.”
She doesn’t crack a smile. She keeps scraping plates and doesn’t look at me.
“Have you talked to Lola?” I ask.
Her movements still. Just for a second.
“I said,” I start again.
“Mind your business, Jace,” she cuts in, voice icy.
I stare at her, the heat from the grill blasting my face so hard that my eyes sting. Grease snaps and pops against the metal.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Aubrey says, shoving the plates into the tub harder than necessary. “So take a fucking hint.”
The words land clean, sharp, meant to cut.
I open my mouth to respond with something sarcastic that would make me seem untouchable. But nothing comes out. And that frustrates me more than what she said.
She grabs three plates loaded with burgers and fries and walks out without giving me another glance.
I flip another patty and press it down. I watch the grease spit up around the edges as I think about this morning, about how Bells told me her friends are wrapped up in their own little world now.
If Aubrey had been paying attention, she would know that Bells has been completely alone for weeks now.