Page 113 of Held-

I place my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension radiating through him. “Brayden, maybe you should listen to?—”

“I'm not spending the night in this place,” he cuts me off, his voice harsh. His eyes meet mine, a silent plea in them that I understand all too well. Hospitals mean vulnerability, helplessness. For Brayden, that's worse than physical pain.

The doctor sighs, clearly used to difficult patients. “Then you'll need to sign an AMA form—Against Medical Advice. And someone will need to monitor you for the next twenty-four hours for signs of concussion or internal bleeding.”

“I'll watch him,” I say immediately. “I won't leave his side.”

Brayden's hand finds mine, squeezing gently despite his battered knuckles. The gesture makes my heart ache more than any of his visible injuries.

“Fine.” The doctor taps something on his tablet with more force than necessary. “I'll have the nurse bring the paperwork and discharge instructions. You'll need to fill these prescriptions immediately.” He scribbles on a prescription pad and hands me the sheet. “Pain management, antibiotics for that facial laceration, and anti-inflammatories.”

When the doctor leaves, I step between Brayden's knees, careful not to touch his injured ribs. “Are you sure checking yourself out is a good idea?”

“I hate hospitals,” he says simply, his good hand coming up to rest at my waist. “Nothing good ever happens in them.”

I think of my mother’s final days—the antiseptic smell, the harsh fluorescent lights seared into my memory, a permanent scar I still carry. “I know,” I whisper, resting my forehead gently against his. “We’ll get you out of here soon.”

He leans into my touch, breathing carefully so he doesn’t jostle his ribs. The vulnerability in his eyes makes something deep in my chest twist.

“How bad do I look?” he asks. “Tell me the truth.”

I pull back just enough to take him in. His lip is split, a thin line of red at the corner. The swelling along his jaw is getting worse by the minute, and the butterfly bandage on his forehead is barely holding the cut from Ethan’s first swing.

“You look rough,” I admit, attempting a shaky smile. “Really rough.”

His thumb moves in slow circles on my hip, a touch meant to reassuremeeven though he’s the one in a hospital gown, bruised and stitched together.

“And you?” he asks softly. “Are you holding up?”

It’s so very him—to worry about me when he’s the one who took the blows. “I’m okay,” I say, though my voice betrays a tremor. “Ethan never got the chance to hurt me.”

I swallow hard. “Because of you.”

Brayden’s expression hardens at Ethan’s name. “Where is that piece of shit now?”

“Jail,” I confirm. “Violation of the protective order, aggravated assault with a weapon, attempted kidnapping, operating under the influence—the list goes on. Sheriff Miller said they're holding him without bail until his arraignment.”

“Good.” The single word burns with Brayden’s fury, even through his pain-strained voice. “Hope they throw away the fucking key.”

A nurse appears with a clipboard of discharge papers, her expression professionally neutral despite Brayden's colorful language. “Mr. Cole, I need your signature on these forms acknowledging that you're leaving against medical advice.”

While Brayden scrawls his name across the dotted lines, I step aside to text Jillian with an update. My hands are still shaking slightly, adrenaline not fully faded from my system.

“All done,” the nurse says, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “I'll get your discharge instructions and prescriptions ready. There's a twenty-four-hour pharmacy three blocks from here if you want to fill these tonight.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, grateful for her matter-of-fact efficiency.

Once she leaves, Brayden attempts to slide off the exam table, his face going alarmingly pale with the effort. I rush forward, slipping my arm around his waist to steady him.

“Easy,” I murmur.

I'm reaching out to grab him when the exam room door swings open. Big and Wrecker burst in. Their faces shift from worry to determination when they see Brayden struggling.

“Whoa there, brother,” Big says, moving with surprising speed for a man his size. He reaches Brayden just as his knees start to buckle, catching him with one massive arm. “We got you.”

“I'm fine,” Brayden protests. The stubborn idiot would rather collapse than admit he needs help.

“Sure you are,” Wrecker says, positioning himself on Brayden's other side. “And I'm the real Santa Claus.”