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I expect to see judgement, embarrassment, but that’s not what he gives me.

“There she is.” His fingers find mine, twining together like we’re one. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

His words run together, like he’s had too much to drink.

“I didn’t know. I would have come sooner if I had.” I stare at the blood on his face. The reminder he’s hurt. “I don’t know your name.” I blurt it out.

His brows dance, as if he has no control over that part of his face. “What?”

“When I got to the reception, they asked who I was looking for and, of course, they’re not going to have you signed in as Dash because that’s not your real name.

” My voice is thin, raw too. “And I realise I don’t know even that basic thing about you.

We’ve been together for weeks, and I don’t even know your name. ”

“It’s Rhys. Maddox.”

I blink. I don’t know why, but him having such a normal name feels wrong. “Your name is Rhys?”

His lips twitch. “You don’t like it?”

My brows come together. “Rhys drives a Volkswagen Golf and wears shiny tracksuits,” I murmur.

He laughs. “Sorry to disappoint. I might be able to find a tracksuit if you’re into that though.”

I rest my head on his stomach, my hands gripping his hips, half prone on the trolley.

“If you ever want to have sex with me again, you won’t.”

He strokes his fingers through my hair, soothing me. He is the one in the bed, hurt, bleeding, and yet he’s comforting me like it’s my blood on the sheets.

“Glad you’re here,” he murmurs. I snuggle tighter against him.

I allow myself to be vulnerable, to let my guard down, just for a second. “You think there’s anywhere else I’d want to be?”

He squeezes me, telling me he understands even if he doesn’t give the words.

I lie with him while he sleeps, drifting myself. Now that my adrenaline has fled, I’m exhausted, rung out.

I’ve been running on fumes all day, and now, I’m shattering.

I close my eyes for a second, and then someone is shaking me awake. I peel my eyes open and there’s two Riots.

I blink, and he merges into one.

“You’ve been here all night?” he asks.

I peel myself off Dash’s chest, checking I haven’t drooled on him. His eyes are closed, his head tilted to one side, and there is still blood on his face. I hate it.

Sitting up slowly, I grip the edge of the trolley as the cubicle spins around me.

Riot grabs my arms, steadying me. “You okay?”

“Whoa, head rush.” He frowns at me, so I give him a smile I don’t feel. “I’m okay. I just sat up too fast.”

I feel nauseous, exhausted and the smell of antiseptic is sitting in my throat like poison.

I stretch, working the knots out of my neck and shoulders.

“You should go home,” he says. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Is he serious? “Are you kicking me out?”

“You look wiped, Dayna. Go home, rest. If anything happens, I promise I’ll send someone myself to bring you back.”

I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at him. I probably should remember that even though he’s sweet with Ivy and Seren, he’s a dangerous man who could bury me in a shallow ditch.

“Would you go home if it was your girl lying on the bed?”

His jaw ticks. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Right. So, I’m going to stay here.”

I sit in the plastic chair at the side of the bed as a patient nearby explodes into rattling coughs.

There’s a moment of silence, then he says, “I’m gonna find the doc.”

He leaves, and even though he didn’t say it, the implication hangs in the air. He has history with Ivy—I have nothing with Dash. I’m not even sure what Dash and I are to each other.

I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it burrows under my skin. It’s because I don’t feel worthy to be here, or like I belong.

I stare at the blood on his face, at how dark his lashes seem against his pale skin.

They couldn’t have cleaned him up after they stitched him?

I duck out of the cubicle and spot a sink. Grabbing a handful of blue roll, I wet it and grab some more for drying.

Then I head back to the cubicle. Riot’s wrong. I should be here, and not because of any history or whatever the fuck else he was implying, but because of how Dash responded when he saw me.

He wanted me here.

Needed me.

And I need him.

When I get back to his bedside, he’s still sleeping. I carefully lift his hair over the bandage and with gentle strokes wipe away the blood.

He doesn’t wake, and I manage to keep my belly under control—at least until I toss the bloody roll into the bin.

It happens quickly. The nausea hits like a wrecking ball, my stomach contracting savagely.

I rush through the maze of treatment spaces into the nearest bathroom and drop to my knees in front of the toilet.

I puke my guts up. It’s unholy how savagely violent it is.

I’m crying and coughing and gasping between every retch, trying to breathe while also dealing with the purging of every single thing I’ve eaten today, maybe ever.

When it subsides, I sag against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

Fuck, what the hell was that? I close my eyes, my body sore and wrung out.

Slowly, like I’m broken, I climb to my feet and use the wall to anchor myself.

I rinse my mouth until I can no longer taste acid and bile then I dry my face. I look pale as fuck in the mirror hanging over the basin.

I look like shit.

I grip the edge of it, forcing calm into my body.

“Okay… you’re okay. He’s okay. And fuck Riot.”

When I feel strong enough, I return to the cubicle to find Riot sitting at the side of the bed.

He lifts his gaze, and I walk to the opposite side like I have every right to be here. I take Dash’s hand in mine, needing his touch.

“Are you?—”

“If you ask if I’m alright, I swear I’ll put you in the bed next to him,” I snap. “I’m fine, and I don’t care how tired you think I am, I’m staying. If you want me to leave, you’ll have to physically drag me out of here.”

Heavy silence stretches for a moment before he asks, “Do you want a coffee?”

Relief floods me. “That would be amazing.”

He stands, and I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Respect?

“Oh, and make sure you call Ivy in the morning. She’s worried about you.”

Of course, she is. Ivy worries about all of us.

“I will. And don’t get me a boring flat white. I like a little personality in my coffee.”

He rolls his eyes before he steps out of the cubicle.

As soon as we are alone, I sag against the edge of the trolley, my body spent, my legs weak. All I want to do is sleep, but I’m not leaving him.

So, I pull the chair close to the bed, dropping the rail so I can lean my head on his stomach.

I grasp his hand in mine like I’m tethering him to me, and then I close my eyes.