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CHAPTER TWELVE

ALLY

Yasmin’s low curse snaps my head up from my phone. Her voice, thick with dread, ripples through the kitchen as I watch her fingers clench the countertop. In a heartbeat, her body begins to sway as if caught in a sudden, invisible current.

Jesus.

By now, I recognise the signs all too well—her skin turns ghostly pale, her eyes lose their focus, and her body wavers.

"Yas, hey," I call out in a rush, the harsh fluorescent glare accentuating my worry. I move swiftly to her side. "Did you check your levels?” As if on cue, our phones go off with a notification from her continuous glucose monitor.

She barely manages a shake of her head, her breath uneven and ragged, like the hiss of escaping air from a punctured tire. “Not yet," she murmurs, her voice small.

I check the notification.

2.1.

Shit. I dart to the fridge, the cool hum of its motor a brief distraction, and retrieve an orange juice. Diabetes demands vigilance with Yasmin, but life’s hectic moments sometimes cause her to slip.

“Here,” I say, pressing juice into her trembling hands. “Drink.”

Without a word, she takes it, her acceptance a silent confession of how dire this moment feels. She sips slowly at first, each gulp a halting promise of relief, then faster as the sweet liquid seems to reawaken her. My hand remains on her arm, warm and steady. We’re the only one’s home. So I send a message to the group chat because I know everyone else will have gotten the notification, and we don’t need Chase rushing home from work.

Ally

I’m with Yasmin, hypo’s under control.

Chase’s response is instant.

Chase

You sure?

Ally

Yep, I’ve got this.

Chase

Thank you, get her to call me when she’s back up.

"Better?" I ask, pocketing my phone, my voice soft with worry.

She nods weakly and swallows another sip. “Yeah... just dizzy.”

I clench my hand around hers a little tighter, reluctant yet protective. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

We shuffle over to the stools by the counter. Our footsteps muted against the cool tiled floor. I stay near, observing every uneven breath and quivering shift in her posture. Yasmin is strong and fiercely stubborn, but her defiant spirit now battles the creeping exhaustion.

Martha, our housekeeper, comes rushing into the kitchen. She plates a blueberry muffin and slides it over to us.

“Don’t tell me you have the app as well?” Yasmin asks around a mouthful of muffin.

Martha has been like a mother to all of us; she makes sure we are all fed and taken care of. She’s been looking after Arden since before he could walk, so naturally, we all became her family.

“Of course I do. Arden thought it would be safer since I’m usually here during the day,” she explains while busying herself in the kitchen.

“Ugh,” Yasmin groans. “He really is overprotective sometimes.”

“He means well. There is also a phone in the security room that gets the alerts so whoever is on duty can help if needed,” Martha explains just as Shamus, one of the security team, walks into the kitchen.

“You right, pet?” Shamus asks in his Irish accent.

Yasmin rolls her eyes while swallowing the last of her muffin. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to come and check on me.” I look at my phone, and her sugars are coming back up.

“I do, pet. It’s my job. I need to look after you all,” he retorts, taking the glass of water Martha offers him.

Yasmin shakes her head and sways a little. I move closer just in case.

“You don’t need to hover all the time, you know,” she mutters, half-grumbling, half-smiling through a haze of dizziness. Her sugars may be coming back up, but if the hypo is bad enough, the dizziness can linger.

I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips. “I do. It’s in the best friend contract.”

Her eyes roll, then soften, a hint of gratitude in the twitch of her lips. “You okay now?” I ask again, voice tender.

She nods, a small smile flickering. “Yeah. Thanks, Ally.”

“Anytime.”

Just then, as if the universe decided fate wasn’t done with me yet, the room steals a tilt beneath my feet. The sensation is like stepping off a moving walkway only to realise far too late that your balance is gone. A deluge of dizziness crashes over me, sucking the breath from my lungs and narrowing my vision to a tight tunnel.

I reach for the counter, but my body won’t respond in kind. In my final conscious moment, Yasmin’s startled whisper—my name, trembling with fear—echoes through the haze before darkness swallows everything.

* * *

I wake slowly as if emerging from a deep, disorienting dream. The airy murmur of recoveries and distant voices brushes past me, yet something remains tangible—a warmth, a firm hand gripping mine with cautious assurance.

Blinking away the blurry remnants, I see Yasmin’s worried face, drawn with concern, looming near me. Behind her, Rhys stands quietly, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight with unspoken alarm.

I can feel a blood pressure cuff on my arm and something on my finger.

I groan, trying to shift upright. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” Yasmin declares, her hand still fixed on mine as though anchoring my drifting senses. “Scared the hell out of me.” A small pinch on my other hand has me looking over at Shamus, who appears to be checking my sugar levels. The blood pressure cuff makes sense now. Our neighbour Isabelle has POTS, so we’re equipped for all kinds of medical emergencies, and it seems everyone has been trained for what to check.

I force a weak laugh while attempting to sit up. Instantly, Rhys appears by my side, his hand settling on my back firmly to steady me. In that moment, as his touch connects, a surprising softness appears in his posture—a silent promise I dare not take for granted.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough like gravel yet underlined with concern that seems to vibrate through every syllable.

I nod, willing the last bits of dizziness away. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just... tired.”

Yasmin snorts, a mix of exasperation and relief. “Bullshit.”

I glare at her playfully. “It’s not a big deal.”

Rhys’s grip tightens as if to emphasise his point. “Passing out isn’t ‘not a big deal,’ Ally.

I exhale slowly, leaning slightly away from his supportive pressure, aware that if I let myself relish his touch too much, the fragile barrier I’ve built around my vulnerabilities might crumble. “I probably just didn’t eat enough today.”

Rhys’s eyes darken briefly, but he refrains from pressing further amidst the lingering buzz of life in the background. Yasmin squeezes my hand one more time before releasing it gently. “You scared me,” she admits softly, her voice now tender.

Guilt tugs at me—Yasmin battles enough on her own without my moments of carelessness. “I’m fine,” I repeat, this time for her sake as much as for mine.

Rhys doesn’t offer words; his silence carries both concern and comfort as he remains close, the invisible tether of care holding us together.

In the ensuing quiet, I muster enough strength to mumble, “I think I need to head to my room and get some rest.”

Rhys nods and, without a word, helps me stand, steering me towards the quiet sanctuary of my personal space. The hall is dimly lit, the distant din of the living room fading behind us, replaced by a solemn stillness that steadies my turbulent nerves.

Entering my room, the subtle scent of cherries from a small diffuser greets us, wrapping the space in calming aromas. I settle onto the edge of my bed, and Rhys stays close at my side, the soft hum of a bedside lamp casting long, gentle shadows across the room.

After a few moments of silence, Rhys lowers his voice, his tone personal and hushed. “Ally, you really had me worried back there. I can’t just stand by and watch you push through these moments alone.”

I let out a shaky sigh, the tension easing as the intimacy of the room envelops us. “I know, Rhys. I’m sorry. I always insist I’m fine, but today, it felt like I wasn’t strong enough to fight off everything.”

He settles onto the chair beside my bed, the fabric creaking softly under his weight. His eyes search mine, layered with both concern and care. “You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time. Taking care of yourself isn’t a weakness—it’s being human. I’m here, Ally. I just want you to be alright.”

I manage a small, appreciative smile, the words resonating deep within me. “Thank you, Rhys. It’s scary, you know? Losing control like that... It makes me feel so vulnerable.”

Rhys tilts his head, the harshness in his usual expression giving way to something softer. “I know. And I worry more than I probably let on. Watching you struggle—it breaks something inside me. You’ve got support, Ally; don’t do it all yourself.”

A long silence hangs between us, broken only by the lamp’s hum and the diffuser’s gentle rustling. Then I speak again, my voice barely audible. “Maybe I’ve been trying too hard to prove I can handle it all. Relying on someone shouldn’t feel like a burden.”

He reaches out, gently brushing his fingers against mine, reassurance flowing through that simple, careful contact. “You’re more than fine, Ally. It’s okay to lean on someone sometimes. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. And I’ll always be here, no matter what.”

I gaze into his eyes, the worry and kindness there melding into something I’ve never quite allowed myself to believe. “Thank you, Rhys. For staying by my side, even when I push you away.”

His lips curve in a small, earnest smile as he squeezes my hand gently. “Always, Ally. Always.”