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I glance up as the double doors hiss open.

Lucas steps out.

His face is pale. Hollowed out. Eyes bloodshot, jaw locked tight.

I stand, instantly.

“They’re still working,” he says, his voice rasping like he hasn’t used it in hours. “Vitals are holding steady. He’s resting. They’ve got him on oxygen and a diuretic to reduce the swelling.”

I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s something.” He rubs his hand across his mouth and, for a second, I think he’s going to sit—but then he shakes his head. “You should go home,” he says, voice low. “I know how hard it is waiting for news in this place. I’m sorry we dragged you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me,” I say gently. “I love him, Lucas. He’s… my family too.”

He just nods once, throat working as he stares down at the floor.

“I’m staying,” I add firmly. “Eddie and Nico are on their way. I’m going to be here when they get here.”

Lucas doesn’t try to argue. He just looks at me and, in that moment, I see every bit of fear he’s buried behind that steel backbone.

Then he places a hand on my shoulder—heavy, grateful. “Thank you.”

I nod. “Go back to Sam. I’ll be right here.”

He turns and disappears through the doors again, the soft hiss sealing him back into that world of beeping machines and whispered prayers.

I sit. The vinyl squeaks beneath me.

And I wait.

For the man I love.

For the friend who always shows up when it matters.

For the moment the door opens again, and I don’t have to be strong on my own anymore.

35.Eddie

The roar is stillin my bones.

My shirt clings to my back, soaked with sweat. My hands are buzzing from the strings, the mic, the adrenaline—and my voice? Raw as hell. But god, it was worth it.

The lights are still cooling overhead, the air thick with the pulse of thousands of voices that sang with me, screamed for change, and meant it. The energy backstage is electric—techs moving gear, radios crackling, the dull thump of music echoing from the far corners of the arena.

I glance to my left and see her—Helen, the transplant coordinator we worked with on the campaign—waving me over.

“Eddie,” she breathes, her eyes glassy but glowing. “We’ve never seen numbers like this. Not even close. We’re still tallying but—” she laughs, overwhelmed, “—we’re going to need more staff just to sort the matches.”

I grin, wiping the sweat from my brow with the edge of my T-shirt. “That’s the best thing you could’ve said to me.”

“You made them care,” she says. “They listened. And they’re signing up in record numbers. We could save so many lives.”

That’s the win. That’s the only one that ever mattered.

I thank her, hug her tight, then turn—and there’s Nico.

Black jacket. Stone face. One nod.