Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
I LOVE YOU, I’M SORRY
HAZEL
Hospitals have a very specific kind of quiet.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that hums with borrowed time, where machines breathe for people who can’t yet do it themselves.
Where every sound feels amplified because you’re listening for one thing and one thing only.
I sit in the chair beside Zack’s bed with my fingers laced through his, careful not to disturb the web of tubes and wires that keep him here with us as I try not to count the seconds between the steady beeps because that way lies madness.
He looks smaller like this.
Not weak—Zack could never be that—but contained, tucked into white sheets and sterile light like the world finally convinced him to rest whether he wanted to or not.
There’s dried blood still visible near his abdomen beneath the clean bandages, a reminder of how close everything came to breaking open completely.
I press my thumb gently against his knuckles like the contact alone might tether him better than any machine ever could.
The room is crowded in the quietest way possible.
Cameron stands near the window, arms folded, posture rigid like if he relaxes even a little the guilt might knock him flat.
Leyla sits beside him on the edge of the couch, her fingers intertwined with his, their knees touching, her presence anchored there like she’s afraid to let go of anything real ever again.
Lincoln leans against the wall near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes sharp and tired, tracking every rise and fall of Zack’s chest like it’s data he refuses to misread.
Sam sits in the chair closest to me.
I know this hurts him probably more than it hurts me, and I turn away, wanting to protect his little bit of privacy, but his eyes are bloodshot.
No one speaks.
We don’t need to.
Every one of us is suspended in the same fragile place between he will and what if he doesn’t.
My mind keeps replaying the warehouse without permission—the gunshot, the way Zack’s body folded, the sound his breath made when it left him too fast. I replay the warmth of his blood on my hands, the way the world narrowed until there was only him and the terrible certainty that love doesn’t protect you from pain, it just gives pain a target.
I lean closer to the bed, lowering my voice like he can hear me even if I don’t know whether he can. “You’re being very dramatic,” I murmur softly. “You know that, right? If you wanted everyone together, you could’ve just asked.”
Leyla lets out a quiet, broken laugh across the room, and Cameron’s hand tightens around hers.
“I need you to wake up,” I continue, brushing my thumb over the faint scar on Zack’s knuckle, grounding myself in the familiar. “You don’t get to disappear on me after everything we survived. I didn’t say what I said last night just to send it into the void.”
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “Sam’s here,” I add gently. “You remember Sam, your little brother. He drove four hours and pretended he wasn’t scared the whole way. He came just for you.”
Sam snorts softly despite himself, eyes fixed on his brother.
“Lincoln’s here, too,” I go on. “And Cameron and Leyla are safe. You did that. You can stop fighting for a minute and let us take it from here.”
Lincoln shifts, clearing his throat quietly. “He’s stubborn,” he says, his voice rough but fond. “Always has been.”
Sam nods once, jaw tight.
I rest my forehead briefly against the back of Zack’s hand, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of him beneath antiseptic and plastic. “You don’t get to scare me like this again,” I whisper, equal parts plea and promise. “I already chose you once. Don’t make me choose again.”
The machines keep their steady rhythm. The room holds its breath with us.
And we wait, but not helpless, not hopeless, just holding the line until Zack decides to come back to us.