Mom and Dad stepped out to get coffee, promising to be back in ten minutes. They left together, which means they’ll be gone for at least thirty. Mom will linger by the counter, asking about caffeine levels in the decaf, Dad will get caught up reading the news on his phone.
For now, it’s just me and Wesley.
He squints at the window, where weak morning light is starting to filter through the half-drawn blinds. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
His brows furrow. “You stayed all night?”
I roll my shoulders, trying to stretch out the stiffness. “So did Mom and Dad.”
“Yeah, but they’re—” He cuts himself off, biting his lip.
They’rethem. The ones who have always been by his side, through every appointment, every hospital stay, every emergency. The ones who dropped everything, rearranged their entire lives around making sure he was okay.
Me? I was just the extra set of hands. The built-in backup.
I watch as he shifts again, slowly adjusting to sit up.
“I’m fine, you know,” he says softly. “You don’t have to babysit me, too.”
“Right. Because the wholecollapsing in the kitchenthing was just for fun.”
He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Tell that to Mom. Pretty sure she aged another ten years.”
He sighs, rubbing at his temple. “I just hate this shit.”
Yeah. Me too, kid.I don’t say it out loud, just press my lips together, leaning forward to prop my elbows on my knees. “You scared them,” I say instead.
He glances away. “I know.”
I run a shaky hand through my hair. “You scared me, too.”
He blinks, caught off guard for half a second before covering it up with a smirk. “Didn’t think anything scared you.”
“Yeah, well.” I exhale through my nose, looking back at the monitor again. Still normal. Still fine.
A beat of silence stretches between us before his smirk fades. He picks at the edge of the hospital blanket, looking a whole lot younger than seventeen. In fact, he looks like the kid I used to read stories to in the back seat of Mom’s car, not the teenager who just got his learner’s permit and now has to wait at least three months to drive again.
“I really am okay,” he says, quieter now.
“I know.”
Another beat. Then, “But you look like shit.”
I snort. “Wow. Thanks, Wes.”
“Just saying. You could’ve at least changed your clothes. The Sycamore polo has seen better days.”
“I didn’t exactly plan for an overnight stay.”
He gives a crooked smile, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something grateful.
Before either of us can say anything else, the door creaks open. Mom and Dad step inside, two coffee cups in hand. Mom looks exhausted, her bun a little looser than it was last night, worry still etched between her brows. But she smiles when she sees Wesley awake, a little tension easing from her shoulders.
Dad steps in behind her, his expression harder to read, but I know that look. The quiet concern, the wheels turning in his head, already planning the next appointment, the next precaution.
