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The doctor looked over at a nurse, that Charlie was unaware had come in, and nodded to her. Charlie watched her exit the room and close the door. “Can you find out about my friend for me?” she asked for the third time.

“I promise to get you some news,” the doctor answered before rattling off a list of do’s and dont’s that she cared nothing about. When he finally left, promising once again that he’d get her news on Hemlock, Charlie closed her eyes. Laying there she silently cried. Not from the pain she was in, but Hemlock for being unlucky to get tangled up in her life.

When the door popped open, Charlie expected to see the doctor or an officer. Instead, Truck walked in, looking somber. Her heart clenched at the sight of him. Shoving herself into a sitting position, she felt the cracks in her composure widening. “Hemlock?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“He’s still in surgery, Truck’s voice was rough, his usual solid demeanor noticeably shaken. He lingered near the door, as though afraid stepping further into the room might break something fragile. He wasn’t used to this—consoling someone sovulnerable. His world was made of hardened men who masked pain with anger or bravado, not girls who wore their emotions on their sleeves. “How are you holding up?”

Charlie swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. They felt endless, burning tracks on her skin. “Barely. I’ve asked three times for news, and no one will tell me anything,” she said softly, her voice shaky, tinged with fear and frustration.

Truck nodded, but his eyes dropped to his shirt. Only now did he notice the dark stains—Hemlock’s blood dried and stiff against the fabric. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut, and he pressed a hand to his chest as if to steady himself. “He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a sibling,” he mumbled, his throat tightening. “I can’t lose him, Charlie.”

Charlie’s breath hitched, and her hands clenched the blanket draped across her lap. “I’m sorry.”

Truck shook his head, his jaw clenching against the storm of emotions threatening to rise. “You didn’t do this, Charlie.”

Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “I brought my problems to his door,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“He could’ve just handed you some cash and sent you on your way,” Truck countered, his tone firm but not unkind. “But he didn’t. He chose to bring you—and your problems—into his life. That was his decision.”

“I love him, Truck,” she confessed, her words barely audible.

“I know you do, Charlie.” Truck exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly as he forced himself to meet her gaze. “And he’ll come out of this just fine.” He tried to smile, to offer her a flicker of reassurance, but the weight in his chest was too heavy to lift.

The silence between them grew thick, oppressive. Finally, Truck cleared his throat. “I need to check in with Vicious and Teller,” he said, his voice more gruff than he intended. He couldn’t stand the idea of breaking down in front of her.

He turned and walked out, his boots heavy against the tile floor. As he made his way to the waiting room, his mind churned with memories of Hemlock—the laughter, the fights, the unspoken bond that made them brothers in every way but blood. He couldn’t afford to lose him now. Not like this.

Truck wasn’t surprised when he stepped into the waiting room. The entire chapter was there, scattered across the room like pieces of a fractured puzzle. Some stood, pacing with agitation, while others sat with grim faces. Even Sway and Kennedy, who rarely lingered for emotional displays, were present. Their collective silence was heavy, charged with unspoken fears.

He caught Teller’s eye and braced himself as the chapter president made a beeline toward him. Shoving a hand through his hair, Truck mentally prepared for the inevitable interrogation. He wasn’t afraid of fines, center punches, or even being stripped of his colors—those were tangible, physical consequences he could handle. But concern? That threw him. He didn’t do emotions, not his own and certainly not anyone else’s.

“Any news on Hemlock and Charlie?” Teller’s tone was steady, but his eyes betrayed the weight of his worry.

Truck scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to hide the crack in his own composure. “Charlie’s being stitched up. Last I heard, Hemlock’s still in surgery.”

Teller nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Truck hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to rehash the chaos, but he knew he couldn’t avoid it. “No. I haven’t spoken to Charlie yet. She’s an emotional wreck right now. All I know is what Hemlock told me on the phone.”

“And what was that?”

Truck glanced around the room, his eyes landing on Vicious leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He silently willed the VP to come over, but the man stayed rooted, watching from a distance. With a resigned sigh, Truck turned back to Teller. “Hemlock called me, frantic. Someone broke in while he was sleeping, caught him off guard. He was hit over the head and hog-tied. When he finally got loose, he called me. By the time I got there, Charlie was running out of the house—I figured to get help. Then this girl, Ashley, showed up in the hallway, covered in blood. She collapsed right there. Moments later, Hemlock stepped into view, bleeding all over, and asked for an ambulance before dropping.”

Teller’s face hardened, his jaw tightening as he processed the information. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“No,” Truck’s voice was clipped, the weight of the night pressing heavily on his shoulders.

The silence between them stretched thin, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional murmur of hospital staff passing by. Truck glanced toward the double doors leading to the emergency area, hoping for some kind of update, but none came. He could feel the collective tension of the chapter behind him, their unspoken demand for answers he didn’t have.

Teller clapped Truck on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “Go back and stay with Charlie. We’ll all be right herewhen she’s released. And we’ll keep pressing them for updates on Hemlock until they give us the answers we want.”

Truck nodded, but before he could turn to leave, Teller did something completely out of character—something that took Truck by surprise. Teller pulled him into a hug. Not a brief, obligatory gesture, but a solid, brotherly embrace. It wasn’t just rare; it was unheard of. Teller didn’t hug people—not his men, not anyone.

“You hear me?” Teller said quietly, his voice steady, but thick with emotion. “He’s gonna be fine. Emile will be up and around, overworking himself like he always does. You’ll see.” The words were spoken with conviction, but deep down, Teller was praying they’d hold true.

Truck stood frozen for a moment before returning the gesture, his hands gripping the back of Teller’s cut. He didn’t realize how much he needed the connection until it was happening. When Teller finally stepped back, his eyes met Truck’s, holding his gaze with the kind of strength that only came from shared battles and unshakable loyalty.

“Thanks, Teller,” Truck said, his voice low but earnest. He wasn’t a man of many words, but the weight behind them said enough.