Page 24

chapter twenty-three

(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight

Present day

Aaron was wrecked.

Physically. Emotionally. In every way a person could be.

Sat slumped in the waiting area of Ryston Hospital A&E with his head in his hands, he shook. Blood had dried into his skin, turning his hands stiff and crusted. His clothes—muddy, ripped, ruined—clung to him and he wasn’t sure how much of the blood was his, Kenny’s, Mel’s or Mable’s. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Not anymore.

The paramedics had tried to help him at the scene, speaking in that firm, level way first responders do when faced with someone barely holding it together. They’d draped a blanket over his shoulders and one had tried to check his vitals, but he shoved them away.

“Don’t touch me. Help them.”

So they had.

They’d loaded Kenny and Mel into the ambulances first—Mel barely conscious, bleeding from her thigh, shock stealing her voice, and Kenny— God, Kenny —so pale, his chest rising in weak, uneven gasps. Reality yanked Aaron back when the flashing lights disappeared into the chaos and an officer shoved him into a police vehicle.

Because there was still a dead body in that warehouse.

Two near-dead people being rushed to hospital.

But the police had brought him here to be checked for injuries, and after the all-clear, he’d refused to leave. He couldn’t care about the others in the waiting area. The nurses moving in and out of triage, the quiet hum of whispered conversations, the wary glances from strangers who stole looks at him then turned away. He could feel their unease, the shock in their expressions as they took in his state. Blood-caked, mud-streaked clothes torn. A police officer stood nearby, stationed over him like a guard dog, waiting for the detective-in-charge to assess the situation, but even that barely registered.

It had been hours. Hours and hours and hours.

At some point, DI Jack Bentley arrived, his voice low but firm as he spoke with his officers, gathering updates, flipping through his notes with the detached efficiency that came from seeing the worst of humanity. The words filtered through Aaron’s exhausted brain in pieces, disjointed enough to feel unreal. Back at the warehouse, where it had all happened, forensic teams were combing through the blood-soaked floor. Mable’s body secured, documented, photographed. Her knife bagged, her bloody footprints preserved. Kenny and Mel’s injuries recorded, medical reports added to the growing case file, ensuring every wound, every bruise, every scar of violence was accounted for. And Aaron—they’d question him later. They needed to reconstruct the chaos, to piece together the who, the what, the why.

But none of that mattered. Not to him.

Because Kenny was in surgery.

He’d arrived at the hospital in critical condition, paramedics forcing fluids into his veins to keep his blood pressure from dropping too low. The deep chest wound had required immediate intervention, and there was still the possibility of a punctured lung. That was all Aaron knew. That was all they had told him.

Mel was rushed into trauma care. Her thigh injury was severe but not life-threatening. He hadn’t seen her, hadn’t spoken to her. He didn’t even know if she was conscious.

All he could do was wait .

Wait in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hell of the hospital, drowning in the uncertainty, trying to hold himself together when all he wanted to do was collapse.

Eventually, DI Bentley made his way over, his presence cutting through the haze of background noise. He leaned in close to the officer beside him, murmuring something low and firm. The officer gave a clipped nod, a sharp “Yessir,” before turning on his heel and striding away.

Aaron was too lost in the numb, suffocating weight of waiting to notice the subtle shift in Jack’s posture. But his expression softened. Just enough to push aside the detective and let go of the distant chill of professionalism, easing into something warmer. Concern, familiarity, a friend rather than an interrogator.

Aaron swallowed hard, bracing himself.

Jack lowered onto the chair beside Aaron. He didn’t speak. Didn’t fill the silence with empty words or forced reassurances. And somehow, what should have been awkward, uncomfortable , just… wasn’t . The quiet between them wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t hollow. It was just there , offering a presence that didn’t need explanation.

After a while, Jack rubbed a hand up Aaron’s back, moving his palm in soothing circles. Hesitant, uncertain, as if he didn’t know what else to do. Maybe he wasn’t even sure why he was doing it, only that he had to.

Aaron inhaled, long and shaky, and lifted his head. “They won’t let me see him.”

“He’s in surgery.”

“When he gets out. They won’t let me see him, will they?”

“I’ll make them.”

Aaron leaned back in the chair, the tension in his muscles momentarily easing and Jack slipped his hand away, resting it on his knee and tapping his fingers idly instead.

Aaron clenched his jaw, staring at the floor. “Will he be okay?”

Jack waited an excruciating beat. “I don’t know.”

Aaron’s breath hitched. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t survive the thought of losing Kenny. Couldn’t picture a world where Kenny didn’t exist in it.

“If I lose him…” Aaron choked, gripping his knees. “I can’t, Jack. I fucking can’t .”

“I know.” Jack shifted, leaning in. “And he knows that, too. And if I know Kenny, which I think I do, he’s in there fighting for his life. Not for himself. For you. ”

Aaron’s gaze snapped to his.

Jack smiled, just a little. “He’s got a lot to live for.”

Something passed between them then. A quiet understanding. A truce carved from the chaos. Maybe even the fragile beginnings of friendship built on the wreckage of everything they had endured.

A voice cut through the moment. “Sir?”

Still slouched in the chair, still wearing his real self, not quite jerking back into his detective skin just yet, Jack glanced up to the officer. “Yes, Jenkins?”

The officer cleared her throat. “Melanie Bennet is out of trauma. On the ward. Would you like us to question her?”

Aaron was already on his feet. “Can I see her?”

Jack didn’t make him wait, didn’t make him fight for it. He nodded. “Yeah. Of course.” He turned back to the officer. “Take him to her.”

The officer led Aaron through the hospital’s maze of sterile white walls, past the curtained cubicles where the groans of other patients echoed. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with the distant hum of beeping monitors and the occasional burst of rushed voices from nurses navigating the chaos of A&E. Jenkins led him deeper into the department, away from the immediate emergency cubicles, toward the more stabilised patients . Mel wouldn’t be in critical care—if she had been, she’d still be in surgery or in the ICU . That thought settled Aaron’s gut, at least. The knowledge that she was well enough to be placed in a recovery bay but still injured enough to warrant extended observation.

Then there she was.

In a standard hospital bed, propped up against sterile pillows, she looked almost unrecognisable beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Her face was pale— too pale —verging on grey, her skin clammy, strands of damp hair clinging to her forehead. One arm was bound in a sling, her wrist and forearm swathed in fresh bandages. Her thigh was elevated, thick white dressings peeking from beneath the flimsy hospital gown, stark against the deep bruising shadowing her exposed skin.

But it was her face that hit him hardest.

The stitches.

Thick, black sutures jagged across her cheek like a cruel afterthought. A reminder of the blade that had torn through her flesh. The swelling around the wound had already begun, distorting the familiar sharpness of her features, bruises blooming beneath her eye. The stitches pulled at her skin with every shallow breath she took, tight and crude. The raw, angry wound stretched from just below her temple down toward the corner of her mouth, twisting what should have been a smirk into something haunted.

She looked small.

Exhaustion clung to her as heavily as the blood coating her hands, and she fluttered her eyelids open. Heavy. Struggling. But awareness surfaced from the drugged haze, and her gaze found his. Not quite registering. Not quite awake. But saw him. And in that fleeting moment, she looked exactly how Aaron would imagine someone who’d been dragged back from the edge of merciless, unforgiving violence.

Haunted.

Swallowing his dread, he stepped forward, hesitated for a second, before sitting carefully on the edge of the chair beside her bed. He didn’t know if he should reach for her, if she even wanted him to.

“You look like shit,” she croaked, her voice weak, hoarse.

Aaron let out an almost broken laugh, rubbing his face with both hands before shaking his head. “You don’t exactly look ready to party yourself.”

“Bit of lippie will sort all this right out.”

Aaron snorted.

Mel blinked, smile fading, lips dry. “So…you’re the Howells’ son, huh?”

Aaron swallowed. Hard. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. Couldn’t tell you.”

“S’okay.” She took a moment to digest it all. Then shrugged. “Got the highlights reel of season one and two from your sister. You win the award for most fucked-up family.”

“Yeah.”

“Thought my lot were nuts.”

“You know as a psych student, you should probably use the correct terminology.”

“Psycho?”

Aaron sniffed back a laugh. “Closer.”

“Well…despite appearances to the contrary, and your psychotic bloodline…you’re all right.”

Aaron arched a brow. “Am I?”

Mel studied him for a long moment, her exhaustion making the silence between them stretch just a little too long. Then, finally, she exhaled, her voice quieter, but certain. “You will be.”

“Maybe.”

“How’s Dr Lyons?”

“Fuck knows.” He ran a hand through his blood-matted hair. “Still in surgery. Could be a punctured lung, but… fuck .”

His chest hurt with the force of it, the not knowing, the way his heart felt as if it was being rung out between two hands. He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling, as if looking up would keep the tears from falling free. And even though she was the one lying in the hospital bed, wounds stitched, barely holding it together, Mel reached for his hand.

Her fingers were weak, her grip unsteady, but she squeezed as much as she could manage. “He’ll be okay.”

Aaron swallowed hard, the warmth of her touch tethering him, grounding him to the moment rather than the panic swallowing him whole.

“If he is, it’s because of you.”

Mel smirked faintly. “Yeah, I’ll do anything for a first.”

Aaron let out a half-choked laugh.

Then, her expression shifted. The teasing edge fading.

“So, you love him, huh? Dr Lyons? And he loves you? It’s not just fucking?”

“No.” Saying it out loud was still foreign, fragile. “I mean… yeah, we fuck. But it’s not just that . ” He exhaled, quieter this time, like the words were settling into his bones. “I’m in love with him.”

“Nice.” Mel’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “That’s really nice.” She blinked, tilting her head as if trying to will away the tears threatening to spill.

Aaron squeezed her hand, unsure what to say, unsure what to do with the emotion sitting thick in the air between them. But a figure emerging at the entrance to the cubicle prevented Aaron from saying anything else.

“ Mel? ” Lottie rushed in, breathless, wide-eyed, hysterical. “Oh, my God, Mel !”

Aaron barely had time to step back before Lottie collapsed onto the bed, wrapping her arms around Mel as best she could, given the wires, the bandages, the IV drips hooked into her veins.

Mel blinked in surprise, then she smiled, tired but real . “Hey. How did you…?”

“It’s all over campus!” Lottie grabbed her hand, squeezing hard, as if she was making sure she was real, still there, still alive. “When I heard it was you , oh my God, I ran here. I was so fucking worried .”

She leaned in, pressing a hurried, frantic kiss to Mel’s forehead. Her stitched cheek. Lips. Again and again, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was here to do it. Aaron looked away, realising then what a shit friend he was. Mel had killed for him, and he didn’t even know what had happened between Mel and Lottie. Looking at them now, nothing. But tragedy had a way of erasing past mistakes. Making room for second chances.

Aaron stepped back, giving them space. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Mel peered around Lottie. “Hey, Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

“He’ll be okay.”

Aaron nodded.

And for the first time since stepping into this hospital, the panic sitting like a vice in Aaron’s chest eased. The pain wasn’t gone. It wouldn’t be gone until he saw Kenny. Heard his voice. Felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath his palm. But for the first time, the helplessness didn’t feel as though it was crushing him entirely.

As he made his way back toward the waiting area, his stomach clenched at the sight of Jack talking with a doctor dressed in scrubs, speaking in that careful, controlled way doctors did when discussing life and death as if it was just maths.

Aaron’s blood ran cold.

“Is he out?” He darted over to them. “Is he okay?”

The doctor took in Aaron’s dishevelled, bloodstained state with a wary expression. “And you are?”

Jack answered before Aaron could. “This is his partner.” He placed a firm hand on Aaron’s back, solid, grounding, as if willing him to stay standing. “Take him to him.” Jack then gave Aaron the only thing that mattered. “He’s okay. Go. ”

Aaron didn’t wait.

The doctor motioned for him to follow, and Aaron’s legs carried him forward before his mind could catch up. He led him toward the Intensive Care Unit, where the walls were quieter, heavier, more suffocating. The tension felt different. Unlike the chaos of A&E. More fragile. Delicate . Especially when Aaron saw him.

On a hospital bed, pale against the white sheets, dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. The rhythmic hiss of airflow felt too steady, too unnatural and the thick bandages wrapped around his chest, just visible beneath the loose hospital gown, along with an IV-line snaking into his arm, dripping fluids into his veins, made the horror so real.

Aaron’s stomach churned.

The doctor cleared his throat, drawing Aaron’s attention for just a second. “He made it through surgery. We had to repair damage to the pectoral muscle where the knife cut deep, and there was a significant loss of blood. He required a transfusion.” He paused, eyes scanning Aaron’s face. “The knife nicked his lung, but didn’t puncture it fully. He had some respiratory distress, but we’ve stabilised him with oxygen.”

“So he’s okay?”

“He’s weak. Very weak. But he’s stable, yes.”

“When can he come home?”

“He’ll be in ICU for at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours for observation. His body needs time to adjust from the trauma and surgery. If he remains stable, we’ll move him to a step-down unit, likely spending another four to five days in the hospital before being discharged. His recovery will take time. The muscle damage will limit his movement for a while, and he’ll need at least six to eight weeks before he regains full strength.”

“Is he in pain?”

The doctor gave a small nod. “It’ll be significant at first. We’re managing it with IV meds, but once he’s more alert, we’ll transition him to oral painkillers. He’ll also need breathing exercises to prevent lung complications, and possibly some physiotherapy.”

The words all blurred together—muscle damage, pain, transfusion, weak, weak, weak. But only one thing mattered. Kenny was alive .

“You can sit with him.” The doctor pointed at the seat beside Kenny’s bed. “He’ll likely drift in and out, but talking to him might help. We only allow one person at his bedside.”

Aaron didn’t need to be told twice.

He sat, and barely dared breathe, afraid if he moved too fast, the fragile thread holding Kenny here would snap and for a long moment, he said nothing.

He just watched him .

The steady rise and fall of his chest. How his oxygen mask fogged on every exhale. The subtle tremor in his fingers, even in sleep. And the beeping of the monitors, a steady, rhythmic reminder that Kenny was still there. A nurse passed by, adjusting the IV line, checking his vitals. She caught Aaron’s frantic, wrecked expression and offered him a small, knowing smile. One that said she’d seen this a hundred times before. It didn’t make it any easier.

Then Kenny coughed.

Aaron lurched forward, taking his hand, wrapping it tight in his own. “Hey, hey,” he whispered, lifting Kenny’s hand to his lips and pressed the lightest, gentlest kiss to his bruised knuckles. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Kenny’s eyes opened, hazy, unfocused, struggling to land on him. But when they did—when Aaron finally saw that deep brown, exhausted but alive—he could have wept.

Kenny gasped, throat catching, as though trying to speak. But Aaron shook his head. “ Don’t. Don’t speak.”

Kenny blinked, chest rising shakily, but he looked almost… relieved . As if he didn’t have the energy to argue. For once, he let Aaron take the lead.

“You’re okay. Mel’s okay.” Aaron’s voice cracked. “We made it.”

Kenny’s breath hitched, as if he’d been holding that fear in his lungs, dreading the answer, and now he could finally let it go. And God , Aaron hoped it didn’t mean he’d let go altogether. But then, weakly, shakily, Kenny lifted his hand, raising it to cup Aaron’s face.

A silent ask. A silent plea.

Aaron covered Kenny’s hand with his own, leaning his cheek into the warmth of his touch, the tender familiarity of it, and he closed his eyes, letting the moment settle into his bones. Tears slipped free, sliding down his cheeks in quiet streaks. His lips parted against Kenny’s palm as he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked, “I’m okay.”

Kenny blinked, tilting his head the slightest bit, the way he always did when Aaron was bullshitting him. The softest, most exhausted ‘liar’ written across his face.

“When you’re out of here, I will be.”

Kenny’s fingers twitched against his cheek before returning back to the bed. His eyes were half-lidded, exhaustion pulling him back under, but Aaron wasn’t ready to let go. He glanced at the nurse, preoccupied, then moved closer, getting right into Kenny’s space. His heart hammered wildly as he lifted the oxygen mask. And, just for a second, he kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. Chaste.

But heavy with everything.

He drew back, settling the mask into place, but Kenny held his gaze as much as he could. He swallowed, throat bobbing as he tried to force words out.

Aaron shook his head, rushing to stop him. “You don’t have to—”

But Kenny spoke anyway, his voice a fragile whisper. “You’re my reason.”

Aaron’s breath stalled in his chest.

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Wasn’t sure if Kenny even knew what he’d just admitted, if it was the painkillers, the exhaustion, or if this was the closest Kenny would ever come to giving him every part of himself.

So Aaron didn’t make him explain it.

Instead, he kissed him again, brushing his lips over Kenny’s temple before pulling away. And because he would always be needy, always crave Kenny’s warmth, he climbed up onto the bed, careful, cautious, avoiding his stitches, and rested his head on Kenny’s shoulder.

He watched his chest rise and fall with steady breaths.

Listened to his heartbeat.

Felt his hand squeeze his.

He then wriggled down, draping Kenny’s arm around him like a protective shield, feigning the safe embrace he needed so badly.

And there, in Kenny’s arms, after everything, Aaron let the Howell in him die.