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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

RHYS

Ally is silent on the drive to the hospital.

Her fingers twisted, eyes glued to the city outside. I know she doesn’t want to go. I also know she won’t admit it.

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. I won’t push her—not yet. But I’m not letting her do this alone, either.

When we pull into the parking lot, she finally exhales, rubbing her palms against her jeans. “You really don’t have to come in with me.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Yeah, I do.”

She sighs but doesn’t argue, which tells me more than anything else just how much she needs me here.

Inside, the waiting room is sterile and quiet, filled with an odd mix of people—older patients, young kids, a nervous-looking teenager flipping through a pamphlet. After she checks in, Ally sits beside me, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles are turning white. I slide my fingers over hers, prying them apart, lacing our fingers together instead.

She tenses but doesn’t pull away.

“Ally Monroe?” a nurse calls out.

Ally lets out a slow breath before standing. I squeeze her hand once before letting go, following her through the hallway into a small examination room.

Dr. Caleb Andrews walks in a few minutes later, folder in hand, a friendly but professional smile on his face. He’s the only reason Ally agreed to this appointment in the first place. She wanted to have the appointment with someone we know and trust, so he’s the one liaising with her specialists and managing her care.

“Ally,” he greets. “Rhys. It’s good to see you again.”

Ally nods stiffly. “You too.”

He flips through his notes. “So, let’s start with how you’ve been feeling. Any major changes since we last spoke?”

Ally shrugs. “Same as before. Some dizzy spells. The occasional brain fog.”

Caleb nods, making a note. “And the seizures? Have they become more frequent?”

Ally hesitates. “Not really.”

I frown. “She had one last week.”

Her head snaps towards me, eyes flashing. “Rhys—" I know she won’t be honest, which is one of the reasons I’m here.

Caleb lifts a brow. “That’s important, Ally. You need to tell us everything.”

She exhales sharply, crossing her arms. “It was small. And not something I want to talk about.”

Caleb gives her a patient look. “I know this is frustrating. But the more we understand your patterns, the better we can manage it.” He flips a page. “Let’s discuss your medication. Have you noticed any side effects?”

Ally shifts uncomfortably. “I feel off sometimes. Tired. A little... slower.”

Caleb nods. “That’s normal when adjusting to anti-seizure medication. But we’ll keep monitoring it and adjust as needed. I also want to schedule an MRI and another EEG to see how things are progressing.”

Ally looks away, biting the inside of her cheek. I can practically feel the tension radiating off her.

“Ally,” I say quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

She doesn’t look at me. “Yeah.”

Caleb senses the shift in her mood and keeps the rest of the appointment short. By the time we walk back to the parking lot, Ally’s shoulders are rigid, her expression carefully blank.

I don’t say anything until we’re back in the car. “Talk to me.”

She stares straight ahead. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Ally—”

“I just hate this, okay?” She exhales sharply, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I hate feeling like I’m not in control of my own body. I hate that I have to depend on meds. I hate that I have to be careful all the time. And I hate that you’re looking at me like I’m fragile.”

I stay quiet for a moment, letting her words settle. Then I reach over, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not fragile, Ally.”

Her eyes are glassy when she looks at me. “I feel like I am.”

“You’re not,” I repeat. “You’re stubborn as hell. And yeah, this sucks. But it doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t change who you are.”

She swallows hard, and I see it—the fear beneath the frustration.

She’s scared.

“You’re not a burden,” I add softly. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Then why do I feel like one?”

I grip her hand, bringing it to my lips. “Because you’re still convincing yourself that you have to do this alone. But you don’t.”

She blinks rapidly, and I know she’s trying to hold it together. But later that night, when she curls up against me in bed, her fingers gripping my shirt, she doesn’t try to push me away.

She lets me hold her.

And for now, that’s enough.