Page 29 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

Chapter Nineteen

I must be hallucinating. Sleep deprivation, stress, the endless recycled hospital air—something has finally made me crack because there's no way Roman, Felix, and Ash are standing in the doorway of Kael's hospital room.

But then Rachyl appears behind them, shifting her weight in those designer scrubs, and the apologetic look on her face tells me this is real. This is happening. The carefully separated worlds I've built are colliding in the worst possible way.

"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out harsher than intended, cracking on the last word. They're not supposed to see this. They're not supposed to see ME like this—unwashed, exhausted, stripped of every defense I've carefully constructed over years of survival.

"Sabina—" Roman starts, taking a step forward, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"You need to leave." I stand too quickly, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. When did I last eat? Yesterday? The day before? Time has no meaning in the ICU. "This isn't... you can't be here."

"Like hell," Ash says, and there's something fierce in his eyes I've never seen before—not playful chaos but protective fury. "You don't get to shut us out, Sabina. Not after what we shared."

"What we shared?" The laugh that escapes is brittle, edged with hysteria. "What we shared was a fantasy. A performance. This—" I gesture wildly at the hospital room, at the machines keeping my baby stable, at my own disheveled state, "—this is reality. This is my life."

"We know," Felix says quietly, his usual careful control evident even here. "Rachyl told us. About Kael, about your sister, about everything."

The betrayal hits like a physical blow. I turn to my best friend, who at least has the decency to look guilty. "You had no right?—"

"She had every right," Roman interrupts, stepping fully into the room. The suite suddenly feels smaller with his presence. "Because you're drowning, and you're too stubborn to reach for help."

"I don't need?—"

"Mommy?"

Kael's voice, stronger than it's been in days, stops everything. His eyes are open, more alert than I've seen since before the treatment went wrong. He's studying the strangers in his room with that intense focus he gets, the one that makes him look so much older than five.

I freeze, caught between my two worlds. My hands shake as I smooth his blanket, trying to decide how to explain this.

"Who are they?" He tilts his head, examining them with those too-wise eyes. Then something shifts in his expression—recognition that shouldn't be there. "They look like..."

"They're friends, baby," I interrupt quickly. "From work."

But Kael isn't listening. He's studying them with an intensity that makes my chest tight. "They look like Uncle Jax,” he says slowly, pointing at Roman. "And Uncle Luka,” his finger moves to Ash. "And Uncle Gabriel," landing on Felix.

My heart stops.

His forehead wrinkles in concentration. "Do they play music too, Like Uncle Kade? Do they sing like Uncle Jax and Auntie Rose do?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. I can feel all three men processing this information—that my son knows Grimoire, calls them family, has no idea these strangers are connected to that world.

"Yeah, buddy," Ash recovers first, his voice carefully controlled. "We play music too."

Kael's eyes light up despite the exhaustion weighing them down. "Cool! Can you play the heart-singing music? Like the kind Mommy was listening to that made her dance?"

Another piece of my carefully constructed privacy shatters.

“Mommy told me she was going to meet people and that the music makes her heart want to sing. Are you the heart-singing people?" Kael asks, and despite everything, there's genuine interest cutting through his medication fog. “Is that why she was happy?"

"Kael—" I start, but he's on a roll now, the way he gets when his brilliant little mind latches onto something.

“After she met the heart singing people, the next morning she made special pancakes.

The ones with faces! The endothermic reaction pancakes—you know, where the acidic buttermilk reacts with sodium bicarbonate to create carbon dioxide bubbles for maximum fluffiness.

With strawberry smiles and blueberry eyes and homemade guava syrup like her Abuela used to make.

And she was singing in the shower. She only sings when she's really happy, not pretend happy. "

Ash steps forward before I can stop him, and every protective instinct screams at me to throw myself between them. But he just crouches down beside the bed with surprising gentleness, careful not to disturb the web of monitors and tubes.

"Hey, little man. I'm Ash. I play the drums, which is basically making heartbeats for songs." He pulls out his ever-present drumsticks, holding them up for inspection. "Want to see?"

"Ash, don't—" I start, but Kael's eyes have already widened with the first real interest he's shown in days.

"Can you make the beep sounds better?” He points weakly at his heart monitor, the gesture taking visible effort. "They're boring. Always the same. Beep... beep... beep..."

Ash grins, that infectious smile that probably works on everyone, even dying five-year-olds.

He starts a soft rhythm on the bed rail, somehow matching and then playing with the steady beep of the monitors.

It's quiet, gentle, nothing like his usual frenetic energy.

The rhythm is complex but soothing, turning medical machinery into melody.

"That's cool," Kael whispers, a tiny smile breaking across his pale face. His eyes find Felix and Roman. "Do you make heartbeats too?"

"Different kinds," Felix says softly, approaching the bed with the same care you'd use around a spooked animal. "I play bass. It's like the deep breathing sounds. The foundation everything else builds on."

"Like carbon?" Kael's eyes light up with recognition. "Mommy says carbon is the foundation of all life. It can form four stable bonds and makes the backbone of every organic molecule." He stares at Felix with intense curiosity, as if his response will determine whether he passes some crucial test.

Felix's eyes crinkle with genuine delight. "Exactly like carbon. It creates complex chains and rings, just like bass lines create the structure for songs." He glances at me with something like wonder. "Your mom taught you well. She's an excellent teacher."

Kael beams at the validation, then turns to Roman. "What about you?"

"I sing," Roman says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "We all work together to make the music feel alive. Like how all the elements work together to create life."

Kael processes this with the seriousness only a five-year-old can manage, his forehead wrinkling in thought.

Then he looks at me with those eyes that see too much.

"Like a perfect experiment! Three variables working together!

" His face brightens with understanding.

"Is that why you were happy? When you came home that morning and made special pancakes?

Because the heartbeat music experiment worked? "

My throat closes completely. He noticed. Of course he noticed. And he's framing it in the language I taught him—experiments and variables and successful outcomes.

"I..." I can't finish, tears threatening to spill over.

"You haven't been happy in a long time," Kael continues matter-of-factly, each word a dagger.

"Not real happy. But that morning you were.

You sang in the shower—the song about practice and theory.

So the experiment must have been successful!

" His face brightens with genuine joy. "That's so great, Mommy. "

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel three sets of eyes on me, understanding dawning. They know now—that morning meant something to me far beyond professional collaboration. That for a few precious hours, I'd let myself feel joy that had nothing to do with treatment plans or survival.

"I just..." My voice breaks completely. "I wanted you to have a special breakfast."

"It was the best," Kael says simply. Then, to my horror and amazement, he looks at the three men standing awkwardly in his hospital room. "Your music made Mommy happy again. Are you going to make more music together? Will you keep making her happy?"

The innocence of the questions—the assumption that happiness is something that can be maintained, like a chemical reaction with the right catalysts—makes my knees weak. I sink back into my chair, unable to stand under the weight of this moment.

"We..." Roman starts, then stops, clearly unsure how to explain to a five-year-old that they made his mother feel whole for the first time in years.

"We made her laugh," Ash supplies finally. "And maybe reminded her that it's okay to be happy sometimes."

Kael considers this with the wisdom of a child who's spent too much time in hospitals. "Good," he decides firmly. "Mommy needs to laugh more. She's better when she laughs. Lighter. Like when helium replaces carbon dioxide."

"Kael—" I start, but he's already turning back to Ash, his attention shifting with the mercurial focus of a sick child conserving energy.

"Can you teach me the heartbeat music? For when the machines are too boring?"

And just like that, my carefully separated worlds don't just collide—they merge, with my five-year-old son as the catalyst.