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Chapter thirty-five

Elliot

I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a freight train. That wasn’t exactly right. I couldn’t actually feel anything, but I was sure a train was involved in something nefarious.

A really dumb train that was currently doing figure eights inside my skull.

My head was heavy, my mouth was dry, and my entire body felt like it had been filled with concrete. Not the good concrete, either—the cheap, lumpy kind that cracked after the first storm.

I blinked up at the ceiling, which was a bad idea, because suddenly the whole room started spinning like a merry-go-round on steroids. I groaned and tried to move, but something tugged at my leg—something tight, stiff, something that felt wrong .

That’s when I heard the voices.

Murmuring nearby. Familiar, but . . . also not. They sounded funny, like cartoon voices but spoken through a toilet paper tube.

I tried to turn my head and squint. Shadowy figures hovered near my bed. They swayed, as though dancing to weird thirties music. I didn’t think they were actually moving, but they sure wouldn’t stand still. There were three of them, I thought, maybe four—or two of the same person standing beside his double? That made sense, didn’t it? They were blurry as hell, shifting in and out of focus like a bad TV signal.

I frowned. “Is this . . . am I in Heaven?”

One of the figures snorted. “No, you’re in Atlanta, most definitely not Heaven.”

I narrowed my eyes, which didn’t help or stop the swaying or spinning or—fuck! “That doesn’t sound right. If I was in Atlanta, I’d be eating barbecue and drinking a beer, not . . .” I glanced down at the gown I wore. “Why am I wearing an evening gown? Are we going to a fancy dinner? And, shit, why am I in a dress instead of a tux? Could I at least get sequins?”

“Yes, sweetie, you can have all the sequins you want, just not here.”

I tried to focus on that voice, because something about it made the tension in my chest loosen a little.

Then I looked at the person it came from.

And I burst out laughing.

“Mrs. H! What are you doing here? You’re not wearing a dress like me. Are you going to the party, too? We should dance when we get there. I bet you’re a good dancer.”

A stunned silence filled the room.

Then, “Oh my God. Hand me my phone. I’m recording this shit.”

I stared at the figure I was absolutely sure was Mrs. H. Sure, she looked a little taller than usual. And broader. And . . . nowhere near eighty years old, but those details didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was here.

“Mrs. H,” I said, grinning dopily. “You got taller. And, uh . . . less wrinkly. Good for you.”

Someone cackled.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” the not-Mrs. H wheezed. “I’m keeping this recording forever.”

I frowned. “Wait. You sound . . . different. Did you get a new voice box? How does someone do that? It’s really impressive. Or, wait, I know . . . a witch curse?” My eyes widened. “Mrs. H, did you piss off a Scottish witch who cursed you with manly beauty and a new deep voice?”

A different voice, deep and exasperated, spoke, “Elliot, that’s not Mrs. H. It’s Matty.”

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then let out a long, slow “Ooooooohhh.”

Matty. Right.

Not Mrs. H.

I cleared my throat. “You sure?”

Matty snorted. “Last time I checked, yeah.”

I squinted at him. “Huh. Weird. You give off a real grumpy grandma vibe.”

Omar howled with laughter.

“Okay,” another voice said—more familiar, closer, steadier. “That’s enough. Jesus Christ, Matty, stop encouraging him.”

I turned toward the new speaker and felt something warm settle in my chest.

I knew this one.

He wasn’t an old woman. Or Scottish. Or a witch.

His face was blurry at first, but the more I looked, the more the edges of his features sharpened—strong jaw, dark eyes, that slightly furrowed brow that he always got when he was annoyed but trying to pretend he wasn’t. And his hair—God, it was so . . . red. In the hospital light, it almost looked like a flaming halo.

Mike.

This was Mike.

My Mike.

I blinked at him, then grinned. “Oh, hey there, Captain Spicy Pants.”

Silence.

Matty—not Mrs. H—wheeled away, clutching his stomach, laughter erupting out of him in high-pitched gasps.

Omar made an unholy choking noise.

Mike’s face twisted. “What did you just call me?”

I pointed at him—or tried to. My arm felt weirdly heavy, like I was trying to move through wet cement. “Captain Spicy Pants.”

Mike stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to formulate a response but failing miserably.

Omar wiped a tear from his eye. “That’s it. That is his name forever.”

“Absolutely not,” Mike snapped.

I hummed, narrowing my eyes. “Okay, okay. Maybe not. I can’t remember, well, much of anything, but I definitely don’t remember you wearing pants at all, spicy or otherwise. Do they make pants in sweet instead of spicy? You might be Sweet Pants. Or maybe you’re more of a . . . Saucy Meatball.”

Matty collapsed onto a chair, laughing so hard he nearly fell off.

Mike looked like he was about two seconds from smothering me with a pillow.

I smirked lazily. “You do look kind of delicious, in a sweet and spicy sort of way.”

“Sweet and spicy, like Chinese food. Make it stop!” Matty had tears streaming down his face.

“Jesus,” Mike muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I so hate you right now.”

“Naa, you love me,” I corrected.

Mike didn’t respond.

Which meant I was right.

Well, fuck. He loved me. Or was that the drugs? They’d given me drugs, hadn’t they? I couldn’t remember. Maybe that was just Mrs. H’s cooking, some kind of weird Scottish aftereffect.

No one else seemed to have had the same meal. They were all so . . . boring . . . and swaying. So much swaying.

Eventually, the laughter faded, and my head started to clear. The fog of pain meds lifted just enough for reality to creep back in.

And with it came the pain.

A dull, deep ache radiated from my leg, while my head throbbed like I’d been cracked with a two-by-four.

I let out a slow breath. “Okay. Yeah. Life is starting to suck.”

Mike was at my side in an instant, his hand hovering over mine like he wasn’t sure if he should touch me. “You okay? What do you need? Talk to me.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just . . . starting to feel it.”

“Call the nurse,” Mike barked at Matty. “Get him pain meds. Now!”

Turning back to me, his face tightened, worry creeping into his expression.

I licked my lips. “I broke my leg, didn’t I?”

Mike exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

I nodded, piecing things together. “And a concussion?”

Matty answered from across the room. “Yeah. You were lucky. You smacked your head instead of something important.”

Mike shook his head, but a tiny smile curled his lips. “You fractured your arm and a couple of ribs, too. They said there was no internal bleeding or anything too serious but wanted to keep you overnight just in case.”

I sighed. “Well. That explains a lot.”

I tried to shift, but pain flared up my leg, and I winced.

Mike’s hand immediately closed around mine.

I blinked up at him, a little startled. No one had ever hovered like this, not even when I got hurt as a kid. My mom and dad were always there, always making sure I was all right, but something about Mike’s bearing, the look on his face, the fear in his eyes—it was all different—it was so much more.

I swallowed hard. “Rodriguez?”

Mike shook his head. “We don’t know yet.”

I clenched my jaw.

Mike squeezed my hand.

The room went quiet for a long moment.

Matty returned with a nurse in tow who gave me another shot of liquid shits and giggles. Then he cleared his throat. “Okay. Now that our patient is about to return to the land of Oz to find the Wizard, Omar and I are gonna get coffee. Mike, try not to have an emotional breakdown while we’re gone.”

The nurse stifled a laugh.

Mike glared up. “Matty.”

Matty grinned. “Sweet pea, we all see it.”

Mike grumbled, but he didn’t let go of my hand.

Omar clapped Mike on the shoulder. “You need anything?”

Mike shook his head. “Nah. Just . . . coffee sounds good. Three cream and two Splenda.”

“Sweet pea, indeed,” I said, earning another hand squeeze.

With that, they left. The nurse followed.

And then it was just us.

Mike’s fingers curled around mine, warm and solid, like he was grounding himself. His thumb rubbed idly over my knuckles, and when I looked at him, his eyes were glassy.

Mike hadn’t let go of my hand.

And I hadn’t let go of his.

That connection—it was an anchor—something real amid the lingering fog in my head, the dull ache in my leg, the heavy weight of exhaustion pressing down on me.

I squeezed his fingers lightly, testing, making sure this wasn’t some lingering fever dream from the pain meds.

He squeezed back.

And when I finally looked up at him—really looked—I felt something crack open inside me.

His eyes were dark, shining with something raw and aching. His lips pressed together like he was holding back the world, something too big to say all at once.

And that terrified me.

Because if I let myself see what was in his face—if I let myself acknowledge it—then I had to admit I felt it, too.

That I wanted this.

That I needed him .

That maybe, just maybe, I was already falling too hard, too fast, and I had no idea how to stop. Maybe there was no way to stop.

Mike exhaled shakily, running his free hand through his hair. “You scared the hell out of me, Elliot.”

I swallowed. My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed gravel. “Yeah?”

He let out a breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah.” He shook his head, eyes flickering over me, like he still couldn’t believe I was here. “Jesus, I—” His voice wavered, and he broke off, shaking his head again.

I blinked at him, waiting.

He looked down at our joined hands, like he’d forgotten he was holding me, like he was debating whether or not to let go.

I tightened my grip, deciding for him.

His eyes shot back to mine, surprised.

I licked my lips, voice rough. “You really thought I was—?”

Mike sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening painfully around mine. “I didn’t know. I didn’t fucking know, Elliot.” His voice cracked on the last word.

That hit me.

Because Mike was always the rational one, the one who kept things light, who teased, who bantered.

I wasn’t used to seeing him like this.

So open. So raw.

So fucking afraid.

I shifted slightly in the bed, wincing when pain flared up my leg. “I’m not going anywhere, you know.”

He let out another unsteady breath. “You almost did.”

I stared at him.

Then, carefully, I reached up with my free hand, fingers brushing his wrist. “But I didn’t.”

Mike exhaled sharply through his nose. His jaw tensed. His eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Then he broke.

He let go of my hand—just long enough to fall across my flattened form.

I sucked in a breath as his arms wrapped around me, careful but firm, his body shaking slightly as he pressed his forehead to the side of my head.

I felt his breath against my temple.

Warm and ragged.

I froze for half a second before closing my eyes and pressing my face into his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Elliot,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “I can’t—” He swallowed hard. “I can’t lose you.”

My chest tightened.

I let out a slow breath, steadying myself. “You won’t.”

He exhaled shakily, his arms holding me like he was afraid I’d slip away if he let go.

I didn’t think I’d ever been held like this.

Not with desperation .

Not with fear.

Not like I mattered.

I swallowed hard. “Mike.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me.

And fuck, there was so much in his eyes.

So much I wasn’t ready to see.

So much I never wanted to unsee.

I forced a small, shaky grin. “You’re really into me, huh?”

Mike let out a breathy laugh, but his eyes were still wet, his face still too open. “Shut up.”

I smirked, though my chest felt too tight, my throat too raw. “No, really. It’s okay to admit it.”

He huffed. “You almost died, and you’re still running your mouth.”

“ Almost ,” I corrected. “That’s the operative word.”

Mike exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to brush against my jaw. “Don’t do that to me again.”

The teasing drained out of me.

I searched his face.

He meant it.

This wasn’t a casual thing for him. This wasn’t something light, something easy to walk away from. I might try to break the tension, to make him laugh, to make myself feel less pressure, but this was real. There was no running or hiding. There was no dancing around, only charging through.

Neither of us had expected this.

But now that it was here, neither of us could ignore it.

I swallowed hard, my throat thick. “I’ll try not to.”

Mike’s eyes softened. His fingers traced lightly over my cheek. “That’s not good enough.”

I let out a shaky breath.

Then, quietly, I murmured, “Okay. I won’t.”

Mike let out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Better.”

We sat there like that for a long moment, our faces close, our breaths mingling.

Then he kissed me.

Soft. Slow.

Like he was memorizing me.

Like he was grateful.

Like our kiss could make everything okay.

I kissed him back, my fingers curling around the front of his shirt, holding on.

Because, fuck, I was grateful, too.