Chapter Twelve #2
Wilder’s face crumpled with relief.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Crew added, “And I’m still mad.”
Wilder nodded fast.
“Good. Valid. Huge fan of consequences.”
Frankie raised one hand. “I can make a chart of consequences.”
“No,” everyone said.
Frankie lowered her hand. “Growth is lonely.”
Cooper held out a paper bag.
“Food.”
Crew took it.
“Thanks.”
Hayes held out coffee.
“Bad coffee, but probably better than upstairs.”
“Everything is better than upstairs coffee,” Crew said.
Junie gave him the blanket.
“For Tom if he wants it. Or you if you turn into a grief statue.”
“Apparently I’m a gargoyle.”
Beck nodded. “Tracks.”
Crew almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he looked at Milo.
Milo’s expression was quiet.
“How is he?” Milo asked.
“Stable. Observation overnight.”
A collective exhale moved through the group.
Sutton’s hand tightened on Wilder’s arm.
Frankie pressed both palms to her eyes.
Hayes looked at the floor.
They loved him.
Not just as captain.
Not just because he kept them steady.
They had come to sit in a hospital lobby for his father, a man most of them barely knew, because Crew had finally let them know something was wrong.
That realization landed heavily.
Maybe he had been wrong about needing.
Maybe needing did not always turn people into prisoners.
Sometimes it gave them a place to stand.
Crew looked at them.
All of them.
“Thanks,” he said, and his voice came rough. “For being here.”
Wilder looked dangerously emotional.
Sutton whispered, “Do not hug him without consent.”
Wilder nodded solemnly.
“Can I hug you with consent?”
Crew stared at him.
Frankie leaned forward.
“This is beautiful.”
Crew sighed.
“Yes.”
Wilder hugged him.
Hard.
Awkwardly.
With the kind of emotion that might bruise.
Crew hugged him back.
For two seconds.
Then three.
Then released him before Wilder could start crying into his shoulder.
Wilder stepped back and wiped his nose.
“Allergies,” he said.
“Townwide problem,” Crew muttered.
Sutton’s mouth curved.
They settled into chairs. Crew ate half a turkey wrap because Cooper stared until he did.
Frankie distributed granola bars. Junie plugged in Crew’s phone with a portable charger.
Hayes gave him the better of the bad coffees.
Wilder sat on his hands when his phone buzzed, then proudly announced, “I did not look.”
“Because it’s in my pocket,” Sutton said.
“Still counts.”
Crew leaned back in the chair and let the noise of them wash over him.
Soft noise.
Not chaos.
Not tonight.
Nearby.
It did something to the tight place in his chest.
He closed his eyes for one second.
When he opened them, Sutton had moved into the chair beside him.
Quietly.
“How’s Marin?” she asked.
Crew looked toward the elevators.
“Angry. Tired. Still here.”
Sutton nodded.
“That sounds like strong and hurt at the same time.”
“Yes.”
“Wilder feels awful.”
“I know.”
“He should.”
“I know.”
She studied him.
“You also look awful.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Have you considered not carrying everyone’s emotional luggage at once?”
“I’m being outnumbered by women with metaphors.”
“Good. Seems necessary.”
Crew huffed a tired laugh.
Sutton leaned back.
“She tied your apron before the livestream.”
Crew turned his head.
Sutton looked straight ahead, casual.
“Wilder wanted to comment. I threatened him with exile.”
“Thank you.”
“She cares,” Sutton said.
Crew’s throat tightened.
“She’s angry.”
“Those are not opposites.”
He looked down at the hospital coffee.
“No.”
Sutton’s voice softened.
“Do you have to leave early?”
Crew stilled.
Of course she knew.
Wilder must have seen the coach message preview. Or maybe Crew’s face had been obvious to anyone who knew him.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell her.”
“I did.”
Sutton looked at him with approval so direct it was uncomfortable.
“Good.”
“It hurt her.”
“Truth does that sometimes. Silence does worse.”
Crew stared at the coffee.
“Yes.”
Upstairs, Marin sat with his father.
Downstairs, his team sat with him.
His coach wanted a call tomorrow.
The roof was saved.
The Fourth was two days away.
Every part of Crew’s life had converged in one hospital and asked what kind of man he planned to be next.
He had no clean answer.
But for once, he was not alone with the question.
After twenty minutes, Crew stood.
“I’m going back up.”
Everyone rose slightly like a pack ready to move.
He lifted a hand.
“No. Stay. Please.”
They stopped.
Mostly.
Frankie looked like the word please had emotionally wounded her.
“We’ll be here,” Milo said.
Crew nodded.
“I know.”
That was new.
Good new.
When Crew returned to Tom’s room, Marin was standing by the window.
Tom was awake.
Of course he was.
The blanket Junie had sent was now over his legs, which meant Marin had somehow accepted it by messenger or stolen it from Crew’s hands without him noticing.
Tom looked more alert.
Still tired.
But his color was better.
Marin turned when Crew entered.
“Your friends are still downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“They brought half a grocery store.”
“Yes.”
“Frankie sent up a note.”
Crew glanced at Tom.
Tom held up a folded napkin.
On it, Frankie had written:
NO GRAPHICS. ONLY SNACKS. GET WELL SOON, SGT. DONNELLY.
Under that, smaller:
P.S. Your frosting handwriting stance is respected.
Tom looked pleased.
“I like that one.”
“Frankie?”
“She understands standards.”
Marin’s mouth twitched.
Crew looked at her.
She looked tired.
Beautiful.
Not in a romanticized way.
In a real way.
Messy hair, red eyes, stubborn posture, hospital coffee untouched on the windowsill, truck keys in her pocket because he had offered her an exit and she had chosen not to take it.
He loved her.
Still.
Now.
Not as memory.
As fact.
Tom cleared his throat.
“You both need sleep.”
Crew shook his head. “I’m staying.”
Tom pointed at him. “You’re negotiating with a man in a hospital bed. Bad form.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I didn’t say leave. I said sleep.”
Marin crossed her arms.
“He’s right.”
Crew looked at her.
“You too,” Tom added.
Marin’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“You look like you fought a ceiling and won.”
“I did.”
“Then rest.”
“I’m fine.”
Tom and Crew both looked at her.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Do not unite against me from a hospital bed.”
Tom smiled faintly.
Crew held up both hands.
“No unity. Just concern.”
“Concern is unity wearing soft shoes.”
Tom chuckled.
Then his face tired again.
That ended the humor quickly.
Marin saw it.
So did Crew.
She walked to the side of the bed and adjusted the blanket.
“You sleep first,” she told Tom. “Then we’ll consider taking advice.”
Tom caught her hand.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He closed his eyes.
This time, sleep came faster.
When his breathing evened, the room became quiet again.
Crew sat in the chair near the bed.
Marin remained standing.
Then she pulled the second chair closer.
Not beside Crew.
Closer to Tom.
But closer to Crew too.
She sat.
The space between them shrank from a gulf to a question.
Crew looked at her.
She stared at Tom.
“Your friends are loud,” she whispered.
“They’re being quiet.”
“I can feel the loud waiting.”
“That’s accurate.”
A small smile.
Then quiet.
Crew leaned back, exhausted down to bone.
The chair was uncomfortable. The room was dim. The monitor beeped at a rate his heart tried to copy and failed.
Marin’s voice came softly.
“You should call your coach in the morning.”
“I will.”
“And tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s bad.”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I have enough going on.”
“Yes.”
“Even if you don’t know how to say it.”
Crew turned his head.
She was looking at him now.
Openly.
Tiredly.
Still guarded, but not hidden.
“Yes,” he said. “Especially then.”
She held his gaze.
Then nodded once.
“Good.”
It felt like a vow, though neither of them had made one.
The room settled around them.
Marin leaned back in the chair.
For a while, they sat awake.
Then her eyes closed.
Her head tilted slightly toward the side.
Not comfortable.
Not sustainable.
Crew watched her fight sleep for ten minutes, stubborn even unconscious-adjacent.
Finally, she drifted.
Her shoulders eased.
Her hand rested near the edge of her chair.
Not reaching.
Just there.
Crew looked at it.
Then away.
No taking.
No claiming.
No making her sleep into permission.
He stayed still.
A few minutes later, her hand shifted.
Sleep-heavy.
Her fingers brushed the space between their chairs.
Not touching him.
Close.
Crew did nothing.
Then, without opening her eyes, Marin whispered, “You can hold my hand if you don’t make it weird.”
Crew stopped breathing.
Tom slept.
The monitor beeped.
The hospital held still.
Crew turned his hand palm up on the armrest between them.
Marin’s fingers slid into his.
No camera.
No post.
No roof.
No town.
Just her choice.
His hand closed gently around hers.
Not too tight.
Not enough to keep.
Enough to be there.
Marin exhaled and slept.
Crew looked at their hands in the dim light.
This time, nobody saw.
This time, nobody took it.
This time, staying felt like a hand held softly in the dark and a promise not yet spoken because it needed to become true before it became pretty.
His phone buzzed once on his knee.
He ignored it.
Whatever it was could wait.
For now, his father slept.
Marin stayed.
And Crew did not let go.