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“Yes,” I say before Z can respond.

“He's in trauma bay four. They're prepping him for surgery.” She gestures toward heavy double doors. “Through there, but you'll need to wait in the surgical lounge.”

The corridor beyond feels endless, the beeping of machines and hushed tones of medical staff.

The surgical lounge appears at the end of the hallway—a small, sterile room with uncomfortable looking couches and outdated magazines scattered across coffee tables. My body moves on autopilot as Z guides me to a worn-out couch.

“Sit,” he says gently, lowering me down before pulling out his phone. His fingers move quickly across the screen as he texts Oz our location.

Z settles beside me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, he simply takes my hand in his, thumb tracing slow, steady circles against my palm. The rhythm steadies me, drawing me back into myself one heartbeat at a time.

The door slides open, and Oz appears, his expression carefully composed. Our eyes lock, and something unspoken passes between us—a shared pain we’re both struggling to contain.

“Any news?” he asks, crossing to sit on my other side.

I shake my head, unable to form words around the lump in my throat.

The door opens again before Oz can respond. A woman in scrubs steps inside. “St. James Family?”

“That’s us,” Z instantly answers.

“Your relationship to the patient?”

“Girlfriend,” Oz answers for me, pointing in my direction. “We’re his brothers.”

“Mr. St. James has a fairly serious bullet wound. It was a through-and-through to his left shoulder, but he lost a significant amount of blood. Hypothermia has complicated the matters.” Her clinical assessment does nothing to soften the blow. “The surgical team is removing bullet fragments and repairing tissue damage now.”

“When can we see him?” Z's voice remains steady, though I feel the tension vibrating through his body where our sides touch.

“Once he's out of surgery and stabilized in recovery. It could be several hours.” Her expression softens slightly as she takes in my shattered appearance. “There’s a private waiting area for the families of emergency procedures. I can show?—”

“No,” I cut her off, the word sharp and sudden even to my own ears. “We'll stay right here. Thank you.”

The nurse gives a tight nod, clearly accustomed to family members in crisis. As she turns to leave, a woman in a crisp Coast Guard uniform appears in the doorway behind her. Lieutenant Commander Wilson.

The nurse excuses herself as the officer steps into the room. My heart hammers against my ribs as I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly until Z's steadies me.

“Did you find him?” The question bursts from me before she can speak. “Alex, tall, blond hair, blue eyes, probably wearing a suit. Did you?—”

“We have three vessels in the search area, but visibility is extremely low at this time of night. We are suspending our search shortly,” she confirms, her professional demeanor softening slightly. “The recovery operation will resume in the morning at first light.”

Recovery. Not rescue. The clinical term slices through me like a blade.

“What happened out there?”

Lieutenant Commander Wilson gestures for me to sit back down, her expression grave but not unkind. “We're still piecing that together. Your friend, Talon, was conscious only briefly when we pulled him from the water. He mentioned his name and the number that I called before he passed out.”

I sink back onto the couch.

“What about the wreckage?” Oz inquiries.

The officer's hesitation tells me everything before she speaks. “We observed debris consistent with a high-velocity impact and subsequent explosion. Multiple vessels were involved. At this time, that is the extent of what I can share with you.”

“What about...” my voice falters, the question sticking in my throat like broken glass. “What about bodies?”

The lieutenant's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. “We've recovered several remains from the water. Though none of them match your description. I’m sorry.”

Hope and dread war within me. No body means there's still a chance, however infinitesimal, that Alex survived. But it also means he could be drifting somewhere in the cold Atlantic, alone and beyond our reach.