Page 30 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

The kid's words hit harder than any accusation could.

Sabina's face crumbles for just a moment—a flash of naked pain so raw it makes my chest ache—before she rebuilds her walls brick by brick.

But I see it all: the guilt eating her alive, the desperate love that keeps her going, the bone-deep exhaustion of someone who's been fighting alone for too long.

"Kael needs to rest," she says, voice steady despite the tears tracking down her cheeks, leaving mascara trails like evidence of her breakdown. "You should go."

"No." The word comes out harsher than I intended, but I don't soften it. "We're not leaving."

"Roman—"

"You sang in the shower," I repeat Kael's words back to her, each one deliberate.

"After five years of carrying this alone, you let yourself be happy for one morning.

You made pancakes with faces. You laughed.

And now you want to go back to doing this by yourself?

To pretending that morning didn't happen? "

Her hands clench into fists at her sides. "You don't understand?—"

"Then help us understand." Felix's voice is calm but firm, the same tone he uses when the music isn't quite right and we need to dig deeper. "We know about Maria. We know you've been raising Kael alone since you were seventeen. We know the treatments, the money, all of it."

"You know facts," Sabina snaps, but her voice breaks on the last word.

"You don't know what it's like to sign papers that might kill the person you love most. You don't know what it's like to watch poison drip into his veins and call it medicine.

To choose between my textbooks and co-payments, between eating and his medications.

To lie awake calculating survival rates and treatment costs and wondering which will run out first—money or time. You don't know?—"

"Mommy?" Kael's small voice cuts through her building hysteria. "Are you mad at the heartbeat makers?"

She deflates instantly, like someone cut her strings. Her hand moves to smooth his hair with the kind of gentleness that only comes from practice—how many times has she done this? How many nights in hospital rooms, soothing him through pain she couldn't prevent?

"No, baby. I'm not mad."

"Good. I like them." His eyes are already drooping, fighting sleep with the determination of a child who doesn't want to miss anything. "Can they stay? The sounds are nice. Better than the machines."

Ash hasn't stopped his soft rhythm, and I realize it's actually helping—Kael's breathing has synced to the beat, becoming deeper and more regular. Even the heart monitor seems to have found a more peaceful pattern.

"Just until you fall asleep," Sabina concedes, and it's the first crack in her armor.

SABINA

I watch my son drift off to sleep, lulled by Ash's gentle drumming, and feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.

These three men—who should have run the moment they learned the truth—are instead here, in this sterile room that's become my whole world, making music for a sick child they've never met before.

The weight of it hits me suddenly. They came here. They found me. They're staying.

"He knows about you," I whisper once Kael's fully asleep, his small hand still curled around Mr. Chompers. "I came home that morning and... I couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop replaying every moment. Made special pancakes at 3 AM because I didn't know what else to do with all that... feeling."

My voice cracks on the last word. How do I explain what that morning meant?

How do I tell them that for a few precious hours, I felt like myself again?

Not the desperate mother, not the exhausted guardian, not the student barely keeping her head above water.

Just Sabina. A woman who could be desired, touched, loved.

"First time in five years I did something just for me, and look what happened." I gesture at the room, at the machines, at my broken child. "Three days later, the treatment nearly killed him. The universe has a sick sense of timing."

"This isn't punishment," Roman says fiercely, stepping closer. "Kael getting sick isn't because you allowed yourself one night of happiness."

"Isn't it?" I turn to face them fully, letting them see everything—the exhaustion that goes bone-deep, the fear that never leaves, the guilt that's my constant companion.

"I got distracted. For the first time in eighteen months, I had money.

Real money. Didn't have to fight insurance or beg for payment plans or calculate which bills to skip.

I just... said yes to the treatment. Didn't research enough, didn't ask enough questions, didn't push back when they said the risk was minimal?—"

"Stop." Felix's voice cuts through my spiral. "You made the best decision you could with the information you had. That's all anyone can do."

"But it wasn't enough?—"

"Mommy always makes the best choices," a sleepy voice interrupts. Kael's eyes are barely open, fighting unconsciousness with sheer will. "Even when they're scary. Even when they hurt. That's what being brave is."

"Where'd you learn that, baby?" I ask, my throat so tight the words barely escape.

"You taught me. When you have to give me shots that hurt but help.

When you cry in the bathroom but come out smiling.

When you sleep in uncomfortable chairs so I'm not alone.

" His eyes find the guys again, too wise for someone so small.

"Are you gonna help Mommy be brave now? She needs people.

She pretends she doesn't, but she does. Sometimes I pretend I'm not scared too, but it's better when someone holds my hand. "

The tears come then, hot and unstoppable. My five-year-old—my sick, exhausted, too-wise five-year-old—sees through me completely.

"I'll hold her hand," Roman says softly, and Kael nods approval.

"Good. She has two hands though. And a head that needs patting sometimes."

"We've got those covered too," Ash promises, and Felix nods agreement.

Satisfied that he's properly delegated my care, Kael's eyes finally close. "Love you, Mommy. Love you too, heartbeat makers."

And with that devastating innocence, he falls into true sleep, leaving me exposed and defenseless in front of three men who've seen every carefully hidden part of me—the performer, the scientist, the desperate guardian, and now the terrified woman barely holding it together.

"We're not going anywhere," Roman says quietly, and his hand finds mine—warm, solid, real. "Not unless you look us in the eyes and tell us that what happened between us meant nothing to you."

I open my mouth to lie, to protect myself and them from the disaster that is my life. But Kael's words echo: Sometimes I pretend I'm not scared too, but it's better when someone holds my hand.

"I can't," I whisper, and Roman's fingers tighten around mine. "I can't tell you that. Because it meant... it meant everything. You made me remember who I was before all this. Made me feel human again. And that terrifies me more than the cancer, more than the bills, more than any of it."

"Why?" Ash asks, setting his drumsticks aside to move closer.

"Because I can survive without hope. I've been doing it for years. But you gave me hope, and if I lose that..." My voice breaks completely. "If I let myself need you and you realize how broken this all is, how impossible..."

"Then we'll be broken and impossible together," Felix says simply. "That's what connection means. Not just sharing the good moments, but sitting in hospital rooms. Holding hands through the terrifying parts."

"You don't know what you're signing up for?—"

"Then teach us," Felix interrupts. "The same way you taught us about chemistry and vulnerability and trust. Teach us how to do this with you."

"It's not beautiful," I warn, needing them to understand. "It's not romantic. It's 3 AM vomit and insurance appeals and watching him get sicker. It's missing everything because treatment comes first. It's?—"

"It's you," Roman says simply. "And we want you. All of you. Even the parts that come with hospital rooms and sick kids and 3 AM pancakes."

"Especially those parts," Ash adds. "Because that's who you really are. Not The Hidden Chemist. Not the fantasy. The woman who raises a kid alone and still finds time to make special pancakes. Who teaches him about carbon chains and bravery in the same breath."

I look at them—these three men who've crashed into my carefully compartmentalized life and refused to be scared away by the messy reality of it.

Men who are sitting in a pediatric cancer ward at dinnertime, making music for my son, offering to share a burden I've carried alone for so long I've forgotten what help feels like.

"Okay," I breathe, and it feels like jumping off a cliff and flying at the same time. "Okay. But I don't... I don't know how to do this. How to let people help. How to not be alone in this."

"That's alright," Roman says, pulling me against his chest. I go willingly, letting myself be held for the first time in so long. "We'll figure it out together."

Felix's hand finds my back, steady and grounding. Ash moves to check on Kael, adjusting his blanket with surprising gentleness.

"Together," I repeat, testing the word. It feels foreign on my tongue but right in my chest. "We're really doing this?"

"We're really doing this," Roman confirms against my hair. "All of it. The music, the treatments, the good days and bad days. Together."

For the first time in five years, I'm not alone in this room. For the first time in five years, I don't have to be. And terrifying as it is, it feels like the first deep breath I've taken since Maria died.

It feels like coming home.

And I finally, finally let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we're all going to be okay.

Not cured. Not fixed. But okay. And sometimes that's enough.

Sometimes that's everything.

The End