catalina
. . .
A week later
They told me three days, it’s been a week. Apparently the pills I took were laced with fentanyl, and they wanted to keep me under observation a bit longer. I just need them to do the fucking psych evaluation so I can go home.
I’m fucking exhausted—not the kind that sleep can fix, but the kind that settles in your bones, making it hard to remember what breathing used to feel like.
“I’m fine,” I whisper to the doctor as he reviews my chart for the third time, like flipping the pages will tell him something I haven’t already said. “I just want to go home.”
He nods as he flips through the chart. “We still need to wait on your psych evaluation. Once we’re sure you’re being discharged into a stable home and mental health environment, we’ll process your release.”
I nod because arguing takes energy I don’t have. I lean back against the pillows and close my eyes just long enough to wish I were anywhere else.
A nurse pokes her head in a minute later. “You’vegot visitors.”
Amelia and Layla rush in, gasping, both of them already crying before they reach the bed. The second they do, their arms wrap around me from both sides, as if they hold me tight enough, they can glue me back together.
“Bitch,” Amelia chokes out, gripping my shoulder. “Don’t do that again.”
Layla’s voice cracks. “You scared us so bad, Cat.”
I press my face into their arms, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes. My chest trembles with the weight of what I’ve done, what I put them through. “I promise I won’t,” I whisper, voice breaking as a single tear slips down my cheek.
We stay like that—clinging, crying, breathing each other in. And then, slowly, they start to pull away.
Amelia wipes her face, trying to recover her usual sarcasm but failing. “We’re not your only surprise.”
Layla kisses my forehead. “You’ve got more people lining up for hugs.”
The door opens again. This time, it’s Maverick and Reed.
Reed walks in first, slow and quiet, eyes full of something I can’t name. He doesn’t say anything at first. He steps forward, wrapping me in a gentle hug, careful not to press too hard against the wires still taped to my skin.
When he pulls back, his voice is soft. “I get it,” he says. “More than you think.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer, and I feel it—something in his eyes that saysme too.Like he knows what it’s like to fall apart quietly, and the courage it takes to wake up the next day.
I wonder about him, about the things he carries that no one sees.
Maverick crashes into me next. “Hey, sugar,” he says, pulling me into a hug that lifts me halfway off the bed.
I grunt, laughing through the ache in my ribs. “You’re gonna knock out my IV, you oversized goon.”
He grins, but when he lets go, his eyes linger a little longer than I expect. There’s no joke there, just relief.
My gaze darts past him. “Where’s Carter?”
The question slips out before I even mean to say it. Maverick’s face shifts, and he doesn’t speak right away.
Oh my god, he left. He fucking left.
The door creaks again, his scent of cedar and pine filling the room. He’s still wearing the same clothes I left him in—black wrinkled Carhartt hoodie, his black cowboy hat, jeans stiff from dried sweat, and his boots scuffed from ranch chores. His hair is a mess, his jaw is dark with his untrimmed beard, his eyes are bloodshot and sunken in, and in his calloused hands, he’s holding a bouquet of purple pansies.
My favorite.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He ambles to my bedside with that same quiet, stormy look he wears. He sets the vase down on the little table beside me, the glass clinking softly against the metal. His fingers linger on the flowers for a beat too long before he turns back toward me, tortured eyes locked on mine.
