The tears won’t stop.
I can’t lose him. I can’t. Not like Mom. Not like this.
Koa sits down beside me. Not touching. Just... there.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I don’t know.
My shoulders shake with silent sobs. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
And then, without thinking, I lean into him.
Just a little. Just enough that my shoulder presses against his arm.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t say anything.
He just lets me.
After a moment, his hand settles on my back. Heavy. Warm. Grounding.
“He’s going to be okay,” Koa says quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
I turn my head to look at him. His face is unreadable in the harsh waiting room light. But there’s something in his eyes—not softness, exactly. But certainty.
“He’s tough,” Koa says.
“He’s an idiot.”
“Yeah. But he’s alive. Trust me.”
I close my eyes, lean my head against his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away. Just sits there, solid and steady, while I fall apart.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t.”
“I mean it. If you hadn’t come—”
“Stop.”
We sit in silence. His hand stays on my back, moving in slow circles that I’m not sure he’s even aware of.
Eventually, a doctor comes out. Young, exhausted-looking, still in scrubs.
“Family of Axel Kane?”
I shoot to my feet. “That’s me. I’m his sister.”
“He’s stable. We pumped his stomach. He’s going to be very sick for a while, but he’ll recover.”
Relief crashes over me so hard my knees nearly buckle. “Can I see him?”
“He’s sedated right now. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation. You can see him in about an hour once we get him moved to a room.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
