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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

RHYS

It happens so fast I don’t even have time to think .

One second, Ally’s standing beside me in the kitchen, barefoot in one of my old hoodies, arguing about whether we should make pasta or order Mushu’s.

Her fingers are dancing along the counter as she talks—animated, light, vibrant in that way she gets when she’s distracted and finally, finally , letting herself relax.

And then her voice falters.

She blinks like the lights just got too bright. Her hand slides along the counter, searching for something to hold on to—only, nothing’s steady enough.

“Ally?”

She sways.

My stomach drops.

“Ally—”

And then she drops .

Not a stumble. Not a slow sink. She just… folds. Her knees buckle, her body crumples, and I don’t think—I just move .

“Ally!”

I’m at her side before she hits the floor, my arms wrapping around her limp body, catching her like my own life depends on it. The world around me sharpens and blurs all at once, panic prickling beneath my skin like electricity.

I lower her gently onto the cold tile, my knees scraping the floor, my hands shaking as they cradle her face.

“Baby, hey. Come on, wake up.” My voice is low, pleading, like if I speak softly enough, she’ll stir. “Ally, open your eyes. Please.”

She doesn’t move.

Her face is pale— too pale—and her lashes rest against her cheeks like she’s sleeping. But this isn’t sleep.

This is something else.

Something worse.

I can’t breathe.

“Call an ambulance!” I bark. Not sure who I’m talking to. The room spins around me, voices scrambling behind me, but all I can see is her.

I press two fingers to her neck. Her pulse is there—faint but steady.

“She’s breathing,” Chase says beside me, voice steadier than mine. He crouches low, his hand hovering near her shoulder. “She’s okay, man. She’s just out.”

But she’s not okay. She just had a medication change, and I should’ve noticed. I should’ve seen it .

My jaw tightens. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and brush my thumb along her cheek. Her skin is clammy and too cool beneath my touch.

“You’ve been pushing too hard,” I say softly. “And I let you.”

The minutes stretch like elastic, painful and slow until the distant cry of sirens breaks through the air like a knife. Red and blue lights flicker through the windows, too bright, too loud, too real .

When the paramedics rush in, I force myself to back away, though it feels like cutting off a limb. I stand, my legs unsteady, dragging a hand through my hair as I watch them descend on her—checking vitals, murmuring between each other in clipped, efficient voices.

Chase gives them a rundown on what has been going on and giving them the name of her new medications. He tells them everything they need to know to help her.

I hate this.

I hate not being able to do something.

I hate that she looks small and breakable and not Ally lying there like that.

And then, finally, she moves.

Her lashes flutter. Her lips part on a quiet, strained breath.

“Rhys?”

I drop to my knees beside her again, cupping her face like I can anchor her back to the world.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here,” I say, voice cracking. “I’ve got you.”

Her eyes open, dazed and glassy but there , and I press a kiss to her forehead like it’s the only way I can make the world right again.

They decide to take her in, and I’m in the ambulance before anyone can argue. She’s quiet, her fingers resting limply in mine as I hold her hand like it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing. The sirens wail above us, but all I hear is the sound of her breathing—soft, shallow, steady.

And all I can think is don’t let this be worse than it looks. Please, God, don’t let this be worse than it looks.

* * *

The waiting room feels like a cage.

Too many white walls. Too much fluorescent light. Too much silence between the beeps and soft murmurs of nurses walking by.

I pace. I sit. I pace again. My legs won’t stay still. My mind won’t either.

The others show up one by one—Chase, Yasmin, Ella, and Arden. They offer coffee and quiet comfort, but I can't take it in.

Because she’s still back there. Hooked up to machines. Pale and still and not okay .

When the doctor finally steps out, the entire room tenses.

“She’s stable,” he says, meeting my eyes first. “Exhaustion and stress-induced syncope. Basically, her body forced a shutdown because she’s been running on empty for too long. The new meds tipped her over the edge, so I’ve paged Caleb and her neurologist for a consult to adjust the dose.”

I nod. But I don’t really hear the rest. The words blur around me.

All I want is to see her.

* * *

When I step into her room, everything else fades.

She’s lying in the hospital bed, tucked under crisp white sheets, monitors gently beeping beside her. An IV drips fluid into her arm. Her skin is pale, lips a little dry, eyes closed.

She looks tired .

So tired.

I step closer, careful not to wake her. But before I even sit down, her eyes flutter open.

She blinks slowly, and then a faint smile curves her lips. “You’re hovering.”

Damn right, I am. I’ll hover forever.

I drop into the chair beside her bed and take her hand in mine. “Of course, I’m hovering.”

She lets out a quiet sigh and stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry.”

I frown. “For what?”

“For scaring you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “For not listening. For thinking I could just… push through it.”

I shake my head, squeezing her hand. “Ally, I don’t care about any of that. I care that you’re okay. That you’re here.”

Her lips press into a line, her eyes turning glassy. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

The words hit harder than anything else tonight.

I lean forward, my voice fierce. “You’re not a burden. You never have been, and you never will be. Do you hear me?” I tell her the same thing I’ve been telling her since all this started.

She swallows, her gaze meeting mine. And for the first time… I see it.

That moment.

The shift.

She believes me.

Not just in her head but in her heart .

She exhales slowly, her shoulders sinking into the mattress like she’s finally letting herself rest. “Okay.”

It’s one word. Soft. Fragile. But it lands like a promise.

I press her knuckles to my lips, eyes burning, throat tight.

Because I know it now. No more what-ifs. No more holding back.

We’ve crossed a line.

We’ve walked through fire.

And we came out the other side.

She’s not alone.

She never was.

And she never will be.

Not while I’m still breathing.