Page 56 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Twenty-Eight

Moe

Seaborn Medbay

I stare at the ceiling, just as I have for the past nine days, which in case you didn’t know is two hundred and sixteen hours, or for a better form of torture; twelve thousand nine hundred and sixty minutes. How many seconds would that be? Seven hundred seventy-seven thousand six hundred.

Fuck’s sake, I’m losing my mind letting the silence creep over me like frostbite—slow, numbing, and inevitable.

The sterile white panels blur at the edges of my vision, my eyes burning from the effort of staying awake, of staying present .

Each breath feels like it’s scraping glass down my throat—sharp and hollow—echoing in a chest that feels both too empty and too full all at once.

The beeping of the heart monitor ticks away like a metronome set to the wrong tempo—too slow, too steady, as if it’s mocking the storm inside me.

I keep waiting for the punchline; for someone to burst in, rip the wires from my skin, and tell me the mission isn’t over—that I never made it back.

That this is some morphine-soaked fantasy stitched together by a dying brain trying to make sense of its final moments.

I close my eyes, just for a second, and it all comes flooding back. The haze of it all: the gunfire, the grit of concrete against my palms, the coppery tang of blood filling my mouth. Her face through the smoke, framed by chaos, right before everything went black.

Right before the world slipped out from under me.

And that look — God , that look she gave me. It was as if she didn’t know me at all, as if I were a stranger wearing my own skin like a mask.

That’s the part that cuts the deepest. Not the wounds or the scars I will add to my collection, but that look. In that breathless moment, I saw the distance between us widen, I noticed her heart pulling back, and I realized what it cost her to remain standing in front of me.

A soft noise pulls me out of my spiral—a barely-there shift to my left, so small that I almost convince myself I imagined it. My eyes snap open, alert and ready, with my throat already working up a warning in case it’s another medic, another soldier, or another well-meaning ghost come to haunt me.

But it’s not.

It’s her .

Curled up in a chair in the far corner, trying to disappear into it. Her knees are drawn up, sleeves pulled over her hands, and her face is half-shadowed by the weak light of the med bay. She looks so small, so tired, so breakable in a way that makes my chest ache worse than any injury.

I freeze. My mind stutters, caught between relief and disbelief. I had convinced myself she was gone, that she wouldn’t return. The way she looked at me before I blacked out felt final—a verdict, not just a moment.

But she’s here .

Quiet. Still. It's as if she’s holding herself together with sheer force of will.

I try to speak, but no sound comes out at first. I don’t know if I should break the fragile balance of this moment—or if I’m even allowed to.

She speaks before I can.

“You're awake,” she says, her voice soft and cracked at the edges, as if she hasn't used it in days. It sounds painful for her to say it.

“I thought I was alone,” I murmur, because that’s how it felt—like I had been abandoned in the dark.

She shrugs faintly, her eyes lowered, focused on some invisible point between us. I wish she’d look at me.

Correction: I wish she'd see me.

“You were. Mostly. ”

“How long have you been here?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.

She shifts, as if debating whether to tell me the truth. “Long enough to hear you crying in your sleep.”

The words hit me like a gut punch, and I wince, instinctively turning my face away.

“And long enough,” she adds quietly, “to realize I don’t recognize you right now.”

That cuts deeper—so much deeper.

My fingers curl into the blanket, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. My body protests the movement, pain flaring sharp and hot through my shoulder and leg, but none of it compares to the burn in my chest. I try to sit up straighter anyway.

“I’m still me,” I say, soft, like maybe if I whisper it, it’ll make the truth in my voice all the more apparent.

She shakes her head and finally lifts her eyes to mine. The weight of her gaze feels unbearable. “I don’t know what that means anymore.”

I want to reach for her. God, I need to. But the IV tugs at my arm, and the space between us feels wider than it’s ever been—like we’re on opposite sides of a canyon, yelling across the void.

“Ray,” I say, careful and slow. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. I thought I had more time. I thought I could control the moment you found out.”

Her laugh is soft, bitter, almost a scoff. “You thought you could control the truth?”

“No. I... there was a lot involved that made it difficult, but I thought I could make it easier,” I admit, because that’s what it was.

Her eyes are sharp now, cutting through me like glass. “That’s not your decision to make.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I know that now. ”

She hugs her arms tighter across her chest, as if trying to hold herself together.

Fuck baby just let me hold you instead.

“I didn’t come here for a fight.” She mutters.

“Then why did you come?” My voice sounds desperate, but I don’t care, because a surge of hope rises within me, raw and messy. I need to know—I need something to hold onto before I slip under again.

“Because…” She hesitates, looking down at her hands and fidgeting with the frayed edge of her sleeve. “I needed to see for myself that you were still alive.”

My heart twists so hard I can barely breathe. “That’s all?”

I brace for the answer, even though I’m not sure I can survive it

“Laura took the fall, by the way,” Raylen says suddenly. “She technically told me everything, so you don’t have to worry about consequences. Or whatever it is that would’ve happened since I found out.”

She’s not looking at me—just staring somewhere past the foot of my bed, like she’s reading a script off the wall. Like if she focuses on anything but me, the words will sting less going down.

“She also told me not to tell you. Said you’d hate her even more than the time she told Caspian you were suicidal.”

My jaw locks tight. A vein ticks in my temple.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand over my face with a groan. I don’t want to do this, not this way— not with her spewing other people’s guilt just to dodge her own fear.

“Sunshine, I don’t fucking care about any of this. Don’t you understand—”

“I had a long sit-down with Sharkie,” she cuts me off, like she didn’t hear me. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to.

“She explained things better. Why it was so secret. What I signed, what it protects. Something about them enforcing new NDA terms. How families can finally know. How people can understand what kind of world their loved ones are living in—and the odds of them coming home.” Her voice is steady, but she’s rambling now, running on fumes and avoidance.

“So, at least something good came out of it.” She shrugs like it’s a casual thing. Like the world didn’t crack open the night I bled out on her floor.

This is a long-ass monologue I can barely follow—noble in theory, sure, but it floats around my head like smoke.

Because what’s the point? What does it matter if the one person I wanted to break the rules for— did break the rules for—is now standing across the room talking like she’s already packed up and gone?

I stare at her, try to keep my voice calm. Steady.

“Raylen.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Ray,” I try again, a little lower, a little softer. I tilt my head toward her, willing her to meet my eyes. “Is that all?”

Her mouth tightens, and a flicker of something dangerous sparks behind her eyes.

“What else is there, Moe?” she snaps, suddenly on fire.

“I watched you bleed. I listened to your brother scream. I felt the moment your friends broke. I held my breath for three fucking days not knowing if I’d ever hear your voice again, then another nine wondering if it would've been easier to let you go if you were dead or like this.”

Each word is a gut punch. I flinch, visibly. But I don’t interrupt. I can’t . She needs this. She deserves this.

“I read every single line of that NDA and realized the man I’ve been giving pieces of myself to has been living a double life this whole time.” Her voice cracks, like something inside her is unraveling.

“And the worst part?” Her arms drop to her sides. “The worst part is that even after all of it... I still want to believe you. I still want to fall back into whatever this is, like it won’t kill me.”

I feel as if I'm being pulled under by an invisible weight. My chest tightens painfully, heavy with the intertwining strands of guilt, longing, and grief. Each emotion wraps around me like a vice, making it hard to breathe, as if the very air I need is being stolen away .

“Then let me fix it,” I plead.

She shakes her head without hesitation. “You can’t.”

I wince and look away as I whisper, “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not ,” she says firmly, no tremor this time. “Not this time. You need space to figure yourself out, Moe. You said it yourself—you only just found out who you really are.” She takes a step back like the space is a requirement. “And I need space to figure out if I can ever trust you again.”

Her words shred straight through me like razors, and I swear I feel every one of them slice along my rib cage. My next breath comes out in pieces. I know I’m unraveling and the best goddamn thing I can probably do for myself right now is keep my fucking mouth shut, but I say it anyway.

“But I love you,” I whisper. No armor left. No pride. Just the truth. “I love you, Raylen. I’ve loved you since the day I met you. I didn’t know it then—not the extent of it—but I do now. I have for a while.”