30. Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Tate
Hospitals have a sound.
It’s not loud, but it's deafening in it's own way
Quiet in a way that presses against your ears.
Monitors are beeping somewhere down the hall. Rubber soles squeaking against polished floors. A distant intercom announcement that echoes through sterile white corridors.
The air smells like antiseptic and something metallic.
Cold.
Too clean.
I push through the sliding ER doors like a man possessed.
My chest is tight, breath shallow from sprinting across half the damn parking lot. Snow clings to the shoulders of my jacket, melting slowly as heat blasts from the vents overhead.
Rowen.
The name is a drumbeat in my head.
Rowen.
Rowen.
Rowen.
The reception desk nurse barely looks up before I’m already speaking.
“I’m looking for Rowen Parks.”
My voice sounds rough.
Like gravel.
Her fingers pause on the keyboard.
She glances up at me properly now, clearly taking in the height, the hockey jacket, the panic I’m not even trying to hide.
“Relation?” she asks gently.
The word hits me harder than expected.
For half a second, I freeze.
Because what the hell am I supposed to say?
Not father.
Not legally.
Not officially.
But every instinct in my body screams something else entirely.
“I’m… family,” I manage.
The nurse studies my face for a moment.
Then nods.
“Pediatric floor. Room 318.”
I don’t even thank her.
I’m already moving.
The elevator ride is torture.
Too slow.
Too quiet.
Every second stretches into something unbearable.
My brain keeps replaying Brett’s voice.
I’ve had to go up to the hospital three times this week.
Three.
Three times.
And nobody told me.
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
And suddenly I’m moving again.
The pediatric floor is brighter than the ER.
Walls painted soft colors. Cartoon murals. Paper snowflakes taped to windows.
It should feel cheerful.
Instead, it makes my stomach twist.
Because kids shouldn’t be here.
Not sick.
Not hooked up to machines.
Room 318.
The numbers blur as I walk faster down the hallway.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
What if he’s worse than Brett made it sound?
What if…I shove the thought away.
The door to 318 is partially open.
I push it wider.
And everything inside my chest stops.
Celeste is sitting beside the hospital bed.
Her shoulders are hunched forward, elbows on her knees, hands gripping each other so tightly her knuckles are white.
She looks exhausted.
Hair pulled into a messy knot.
Dark circles under her eyes.
She’s wearing the same sweater I saw her in three days ago.
And in the bed…
Rowen.
He looks smaller somehow.
Too small for the big white hospital sheets.
His curls are flattened against the pillow. An IV line runs from the back of his hand, taped down with bright blue medical tape. A monitor beside the bed blinks steadily, the soft rhythmic beep echoing through the room.
My chest tightens painfully.
“Rowen…”
The name leaves my mouth before I even realize I’ve spoken.
Celeste’s head snaps up.
Her eyes widen.
Shock floods her face.
“Tate?”
She says my name like she doesn’t quite believe I’m standing here.
Like I’m a hallucination.
Rowen stirs at the sound of my voice.
His eyes open slowly.
Sleepy.
Heavy.
But the moment he focuses on me. His entire face lights up.
“Tate!”
The word is breathy but excited.
Like I just walked into his birthday party.
Something inside my chest cracks wide open.
I cross the room in two strides.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, my voice softer now.
Careful.
Like he might break.
I stop beside the bed, taking in the IV, the monitor, the pale color of his skin.
“What’s going on, little man?”
Rowen shrugs weakly.
“Virus,” he says.
Like it’s no big deal.
“Numbers went crazy.”
I glance at the monitor automatically, even though I know the hospital machines aren’t the same as his Dexcom readings.
Celeste stands slowly.
Her chair scrapes softly against the tile floor.
“Tate… what are you doing here?”
There’s something in her voice.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Fear.
Confusion.
Maybe both.
I drag my eyes away from Rowen and look at her.
Really look.
And suddenly all the pieces slam together.
The distance.
The breakup.
The exhaustion on her face.
“You didn’t tell me,” I say quietly.
Her jaw tightens.
“I handled it.”
My temper flares instantly.
“By yourself?”
“Tate—”
“I heard Brett talking.”
The room goes very still.
Celeste’s face drains of color.
“You… what?”
“He was complaining,” I say.
The anger in my chest burns hotter now.
“About having to visit the hospital.”
Rowen shifts slightly in the bed.
I immediately force my voice to be calmer.
Because this conversation is not for him.
Celeste runs a hand over her face.
Her shoulders sag like something heavy just dropped on them.
“He shouldn’t have said anything,” she mutters.
“That’s what you’re worried about?” I ask.
My voice rises despite my effort to keep it down.
“You were dealing with this alone, Cel.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“You didn’t call me.”
Her eyes flash.
“I broke up with you.”
The words land like a slap.
But they don’t push me away the way she clearly intends them to.
Instead, they make my chest ache.
Because suddenly I see it.
Her fear hiding behind her stubbornness.
“You think that changes how much I care about him, about you?” I ask quietly.
Her throat works as she swallows.
“I didn’t want to drag you into this.”
Too late.
I step closer.
Lower my voice.
“You didn’t drag me anywhere.”
Rowen watches us carefully from the bed.
His small fingers twist the edge of the blanket.
“Tate?”
I turn back to him immediately.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“You came.”
The simple statement hits harder than anything else tonight.
“Of course I did,” I say gently.
His eyes flick between me and Celeste.
Then he asks quietly, “Are you still my momma’s boyfriend?”
The question hangs in the air.
Celeste freezes.
I feel something twist painfully inside my chest.
Because I don’t know the answer anymore.
Not after the way she ended things.
But when I look down at Rowen. Small. Pale.
Hooked up to hospital machines.
There’s only one thing I can say.
“I’m still your guy,” I tell him.
Rowen seems to think about that.
Then he nods once.
Satisfied.
And settles back into the pillow.
The monitor continues its steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Celeste looks like she might cry.
She turns away quickly, pressing her hand over her mouth.
Her shoulders shake once.
Then she steadies herself.
I step beside her.
Close enough that our arms almost touch.
Neither of us says anything for a long moment.
Finally, she whispers, “I was trying to protect you.”
I stare at the hospital floor.
“You don’t get to decide that alone.”
Silence fills the room again.
But this time it feels different.
Not distant.
Not final.
Just fragile.
Like something broken might still be repairable.
And for the first time in weeks
I’m not walking away, I’m not letting her push me away.