Lana's POV:

The door clicks shut behind him.  

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic.

It’s just… final.

My knees give out a second later.

I slide down the wall, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls like my lungs forgot how to work without him in the room. My ears ring. My hands are numb. Every cruel word I threw at him replays in my head, louder now, uglier now that there’s no anger left to hide behind.

You don’t matter to me. 

You’re the person I regret.

God.

What did I just do?

The bass thumps through the wall again, indifferent. The party doesn’t care that I just detonated something irreversible.

I press my palms to my face and squeeze my eyes shut.

Get it together.

You wanted space, you got it.

When I finally stand, my legs are shaky but they hold. I smooth my dress like that can smooth the damage too, take one steadying breath, and open the door.

The hallway is chaotic.

People laughing, someone yelling about spilled drinks. Easton shouting at someone for bleeding on his rug.

And then… Alistair.

He’s leaning against the wall across from the storage room, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes snap to me the second I step out.

“Where’s Reeve?” he asks.

The question hits like a bruise.

“I—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “He left.”

Alistair stares at me for a long moment, unreadable. Then his gaze flicks past me, to the closed door behind me, and something dark crosses his face.

“What did you say to him?” he asks quietly.

My chest tightens. “I don’t want to do this with you.”

“Too bad.” He straightens. “Because he doesn’t just leave like that unless something breaks.”

Another figure joins him, Enzo, expression uncharacteristically serious, cup forgotten in his hand. Then Easton himself, bleeding from the eyebrow, still drunk but suddenly very aware.

“Yo,” Easton says slowly. “Where’s Reeve?”

No one answers.

Alistair’s voice sharpens. “Lana.”

I flinch.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know,” I snap, defensive reflex kicking in. “Why is this suddenly my responsibility?”

Enzo scoffs softly. “Because you’re the only person who can wreck him without touching him.”

That lands.

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

Easton runs a hand through his hair. “He came here already messed up. I tried to get him to drink, dance, something. The fucker wouldn’t even sit down.”

Alistair nods. “He kept asking if you were okay.”

My stomach drops.

“He wasn’t angry,” Enzo adds, eyes on me. “Just… wired. Like he was holding himself together with spite and duct tape.”

I feel sick.

“He said,” Easton continues, slower now, “‘If she’s here, I just need to see her. That’s it.’”

My throat closes.

Alistair exhales sharply. “Then twenty minutes later, he walks out looking like someone ripped his spine out.”

Silence stretches between us.

Finally, Alistair says, not unkindly but not gentle either, “What did you do to him, Lana?”

I swallow. My eyes burn.

“I told him the truth,” I whisper.

Enzo studies my face, then sighs. “No, you told him what would hurt the most.”

That’s worse.

I don’t wait for them to say anything else. I turn and push through the crowd, past flashing lights and drunken laughter that suddenly feels obscene.

I need air.

Outside, the night is cold and sharp, sobering. I scan the driveway, heart pounding.

I sit on the footpath, my back resting against a pillar as I take a deep breath. The kiss replays in my mind again and again. 

I find a rock and swing it hard, and in the dark, I can’t see where it landed. I sit there for a while, just staring up at the night sky.

It’s calm and peaceful, the exact opposite of tonight. My mind keeps replaying it all.

Eventually, I text in the groupchat that I’m leaving and get up, walking towards my car. I drive home. 

My house is dark when I get home.

I kick off my shoes by the door, leave my makeup on, don’t bother changing. I sit on my bed and stare at the wall like it might start explaining things if I wait long enough.

It doesn’t.

I replay everything instead.

His voice. His face when I said those words.

You don’t matter to me.

I hate you.

The lie tastes worse with time. 

I hate the flash of hurt I saw in his eyes before his expression went blank. 

Four hours crawl by.

Every minute feels like punishment.

I keep seeing his face when it went empty. The way something vital left his eyes like a door slamming shut. The way he walked away without looking back.

You’re the person I would’ve done anything for.

My phone stays silent.

I check the time without meaning to.

3:47 a.m.

No messages. No calls.

Nothing.

I tell myself that’s good. That distance was the point. That he’s with his friends, that he’s safe, that I don’t need to know anything else.

My phone rings.

I flinch so hard it nearly slips out of my hand.

Who would be calling at 3:58 am? 

The sound slices through the quiet.

Unknown Caller.

My stomach drops.

I answer.

“Lana.”

Alistair’s voice is tight. Controlled. Which means it’s bad.

“What happened?” I ask.

Wind howls through the speaker. Distant voices. The unmistakable sound of pain being swallowed rather than screamed.

“He crashed his bike,” Alistair says. “He’s alive. Drunk. Injured.”

The room tilts.

“Where is he?”

“Ridgeway gas station.” A pause. “Ambulance is here. He won’t get in.”

My chest tightens. “Why?”

Another voice cuts through the call, low, rough, unmistakable.

“Get your hands off me.”

Aiden.

Still commanding. Still dangerous. Even wrecked.

Alistair exhales. “He won’t let them touch him. Keeps asking for you.”

My pulse spikes.

“Put him on.”

There’s movement. A tense exchange. Then a voice.

“Lana.”

My name comes out gravelly. Controlled. Like he’s forcing every ounce of discipline he has left to keep it steady.

“I’m here,” I say quietly.

A slow breath on the other end. Grounding himself.

“Didn’t think you’d answer,” he says.

“You crashed,” I reply. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“I know.”

No denial. No dramatics.

“They’re saying head injury,” I add.

“Helmet cracked,” he says calmly. Then, lower: “Shoulder’s fucked.”

My nails dig into my palm. “Why won’t you get in the ambulance?”

A pause.

Because he hates needing anyone.

Because he hates being weak.

“Because I won’t wake up alone,” he says finally. “And I don’t trust myself not to leave if you’re not there.”

The admission lands heavy.

“You’re drunk,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “Still know what I’m saying.”

I believe him.

“You shouldn’t have ridden.”

“I know.”

Simple. No excuses.

“I couldn’t shut my head up,” he adds. “Didn’t plan to crash. Just needed the noise to stop.”

A sharp breath on his end. Pain breaking through the control.

“Don’t move,” someone orders in the background.

“Touch me again,” Aiden growls, “and we’re gonna have a problem.”

I close my eyes.

“Aiden,” I say firmly. “If I come, you go. No fighting. No disappearing.”

Silence.

Then, low and deliberate. “You coming?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll get in,” he says. “But only if you stay.”

My chest aches.

“I’ll stay,” I promise.

Another breath. Slower now.

“Good.”

Alistair mutters something under his breath. Relief.

Aiden’s voice drops, roughened by exhaustion.

“I didn’t call you,” he says. “Didn’t want to beg.”

“You didn’t,” I reply softly.

A pause.

“Still glad you’re coming.”

“I’m on my way,” I say, grabbing my keys. “Stay awake.”

“I don’t pass out easy,” he says. Then, a pause. “But don’t take long.”

“I won’t.”

“Lana.”

“Yes?”

A fraction of a second passes.

“Don’t disappear on me again.”

The request isn’t soft.

It’s a warning.

A promise.

“I won’t,” I say.

The call ends.

I hurry out of my house, only taking my phone and car keys along.

I rush into the night, heart pounding, one truth settles deep in my bones.

He’s not breaking because he’s weak.

He’s breaking because he finally let himself need me.

And that is far more dangerous.

The gas station lights cut through the dark like a crime scene.

Red and blue flash against concrete. The smell of gasoline mixes with blood and burnt rubber. My heart is in my throat before I even park.

I see him first.

Aiden is sitting on the curb, back straight despite the pain, one boot planted, the other leg stretched out awkwardly. His jacket is torn at the shoulder, dark with blood. His helmet lies split open beside him like proof of how close this came to being worse.

Two EMTs hover nearby, clearly frustrated.

He hasn’t moved an inch.

When his eyes lift and lock onto mine, something hard in his expression finally fractures.

Not relief.

Possession.

There you are.

“You took your time,” he mutters. His voice is rough. Low. Still him.

“I drove as fast as I could,” I say, dropping in front of him without thinking.

The EMT starts to speak. “Miss, we really need—”

“He’s going,” I cut in, eyes never leaving Aiden. “Right?”

Aiden studies me for a second.

Then, deliberately, he nods.

“I’ll go,” he says. “Now.”

The EMT blinks. “That easy?”

Aiden doesn’t look away from me. “Yeah.”

I swallow.

They move fast after that. A stretcher appears. One of them reaches for his shoulder—

Aiden’s jaw tightens. His breath sharpens.

“Careful,” he warns.

“I know,” the EMT says. “But we need to stabilize—”

“I said careful.”

I step closer instinctively, my hand brushing his wrist.

“Hey,” I murmur. “Look at me.”

His eyes flick to mine instantly.

The pain doesn’t disappear, but his body stills.

“Breathe,” I say softly. “I’m right here.”

He exhales through his nose, controlled, restrained, like a man refusing to let pain own him.

They lift him onto the stretcher.

He doesn’t fight.

But when they start wheeling him away, his hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist.

Firm.

Possessive.

“You’re coming,” he says. Not a question.

“I am,” I promise. “I’m not leaving.”

Only then does he let go.

The ambulance ride is claustrophobic.

Monitors beep. The lights are too bright. Blood stains his knuckles and shirt, his collarbone bruising fast beneath torn fabric. His shoulder is already swelling, grotesque and wrong.

The alcohol is still in him, heavy, loosening his control, but the man underneath is unmistakably present.

The EMT asks him questions.

“Name?”

“Aiden Reeve.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Ambulance.”

“Do you know who she is?”

His gaze flicks to me.

“Mine.”

The EMT pauses.

I feel heat crawl up my neck.

“Girlfriend?” the EMT asks.

Aiden’s jaw flexes.

“She’s with me,” he says instead.

That feels heavier.

The EMT checks his pupils. “You’re very intoxicated.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have been riding.”

“I know,” he repeats.

No excuses. No self-pity.

Just consequences.

A sharp jolt of pain hits him suddenly when the ambulance turns.

His breath breaks despite himself.

“Fuck—”

His hand finds mine again, grip tightening instinctively.

“Easy,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”

His thumb presses once against my skin. Anchoring himself.

“Don’t let go,” he murmurs.

“I won’t.”

His voice drops lower, stripped of its edge.

“I didn’t come to that party to hurt you,” he says quietly. “I came because I couldn’t stand not knowing if you were okay.”

My chest aches.

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have ridden,” he admits. “I was angry. And drunk. And stupid.”

I squeeze his hand. “You scared me.”

His eyes flicker.

“Good,” he says again. Then, softer this time, “Means I still matter.”

I don’t argue.

At the hospital, everything becomes controlled chaos.

Doctors. Nurses. Orders barked out like commands.

They cut his jacket off.

I look away when they assess his shoulder, the angle unnatural, his jaw clenched so tight a vein pulses in his neck.

He doesn’t cry out.

He breathes through it with a blank face. 

But when they tell me to wait outside, his hand tightens around mine again.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Sir—”

“She stays.”

There’s no raised voice.

No threat.

Just authority.

The doctor hesitates, then nods. “Fine. But she stays out of the way.” 

No one wants to argue with someone who has ‘Reeve’ in their last name.

Aiden doesn’t look at anyone else.

“Sit,” he tells me quietly.

I do.

They clean the blood from his face. Tape his ribs. Prep him for imaging.

When the pain spikes, his fingers flex around mine.

When it eases, he loosens just slightly, never fully letting go.

“You’re not allowed to say I don’t matter again,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the ceiling.

My throat tightens.

“I won’t.”

He turns his head just enough to look at me. “You don’t get to walk out of my life and then show up like this doesn’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t walk out,” I whisper. “I didn’t know how to stay.”

His eyes darken. Not angry. Intent.

“Then you learn,” he says. “Because I’m not doing this halfway.”

A beat.

“I don’t love softly,” he adds. “And I don’t let go once I decide.”

My heart stutters.

Love?

“You’re injured,” I say weakly.

A corner of his mouth lifts. A dangerous, tired smile.

“And you’re still here.”

That’s the most vulnerable thing he’s said all night.

And somehow, the most terrifying.

Because I realized something, sitting there with his blood still warm on my hands that this wasn’t a wake-up call.

It was a line crossed.

And neither of us knows how to step back anymore. 

The room quiets once they finally wheel him into imaging.

Not silent, but softer. Muted. Like the hospital itself is holding its breath.

Aiden’s fingers slip from mine only when they have to move him. He doesn’t fight it, but his eyes stay on me until the doors slide shut. Until I’m standing there alone, my hands empty, my pulse still synced to his.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until I sit down.

My phone is heavy in my palm.

There’s only one person I can call.

Jude.

I stare at her name for a long second before pressing it, like that single tap might set off another chain reaction I can’t undo.

She answers on the third ring.

“Lana?” Her voice is groggy, then instantly sharper. “What’s wrong?”

My throat closes.

“It’s Aiden.”

Silence.

“What happened?”

“He crashed his bike,” I say, forcing the words out cleanly. Controlled. “He’s alive. He’s… hurt. Shoulder, ribs. Possible head injury.”

I hear her sit up. The rustle of sheets. The sound of someone who knows exactly how bad this can get.

“Where are you?” she asks, her voice panicked. 

“Ridgeway General.”

A breath leaves her that sounds like relief tangled with fear. “Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Is he being an asshole?”

Despite everything, a weak sound escapes my chest. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Jude says. “That’s good. That means he’s still in there.”

There’s a pause. Then, quieter: “Is he alone?”

“No,” I say immediately. “I’m here.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You’re with him,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She doesn’t accuse. Doesn’t pry.

She just exhales.

“Thank you.” The word lands heavier than anything else tonight. “Lana… he—” She pauses. 

“What is it?” I ask.

She whispers. “Aiden doesn’t like hospitals.” 

“What?” I ask again, confused.

She sighs. “He—forget it.” 

“They’re doing scans right now,” I add. “He didn’t want to get in the ambulance without me.”

Jude snorts softly. “Stubborn bastard.”

“He kept asking for me,” I say, my voice breaking despite myself. “He wouldn’t let them touch him.”

I hear Jude swallow.

“That’s… that’s bad,” she says carefully. “Not bad like medically. Bad like… he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t need people.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Another silence stretches between us, filled with things neither of us is saying.

Finally, Jude speaks again. “What happened before the crash?”

My chest tightens.

“I hurt him,” I say honestly. “I said things I shouldn’t have. I pushed him away.”

Jude doesn’t rush to reassure me. She never does.

“He came to the party because of you,” she says instead. “He left angry. Alistair said he was barely holding it together.”

My fingers curl into the fabric of my dress.

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” Jude cuts in gently. “You didn’t.”

She sighs. “Look, Lana… Aiden’s not fragile. But when he lets someone in, he gives them access to the worst parts of him. The parts he usually keeps locked down with violence and control.”

That tracks.

“He doesn’t fall apart easily,” she continues. “So if he did tonight, it means he trusted you more than he should have.”

Guilt twists sharp and deep.

“I’m not leaving,” I say, the words coming out more like a vow than a statement. “I don’t care how long this takes.”

“I know,” Jude replies. “He wouldn’t let you if you tried.”

A bitter smile tugs at my mouth.

“When can I see him?” she asks.

“They said an hour. Maybe less.”

“I’m on my way,” she says immediately.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Jude says firmly. “I’m his sister. Even if he pretends he doesn’t need me.”

“I’ll text you when they’re done,” I promise.

“Stay with him,” Jude says. “Please.”

“I will.”

The call ends, and I’m left staring at the blank screen, my reflection faint and pale against the glass.

You don’t matter to me.

The lie feels obscene now.

The doors slide open twenty minutes later.

A nurse calls his name.

I’m on my feet instantly.

They wheel him back out, groggy but awake, pain carved into the lines of his face. His shoulder is immobilized now, arm strapped tight against his torso. His hair is damp with sweat. His eyes find me immediately.

There you are.

“Hey,” I say, stepping close.

His gaze drags over my face like he’s checking for damage.

“You leave?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good.”

That’s all he says, but his shoulders ease a fraction.

The doctor starts explaining injuries, dislocated shoulder, fractured collarbone, bruised ribs, concussion protocol. No internal bleeding. No surgery tonight.

Aiden listens without interrupting.

When they finish, he asks one question.

“She staying?”

The doctor glances at me, then nods. “As long as she wants.”

Aiden looks at me.

“Stay.”

“I am,” I say softly.

They move him to a room. Dim lights. Thin curtains. The smell of antiseptic and exhaustion.

Once he’s settled, once the nurse leaves, the space between us hums.

“I called Jude,” I say quietly.

His eyes flicker. Surprise. Then understanding.

“Okay,” he says. No resistance. “She should know.”

“She’s on her way.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens, then relaxes.

“Good.”

I sit beside the bed.

“You scared her,” I add.

His mouth tilts faintly. “She scares easy.”

“That’s a lie.”

He watches me for a long second. “You meant it?” he asks.

My heart stutters. “Meant what?”

“What you said earlier,” he clarifies. “About staying.”

“Yes.”

“No disappearing,” he says again. Not angry. Careful. Like he’s testing the ground beneath us.

“No disappearing,” I echo.

He studies my face, searching for cracks, for retreat.

He doesn’t find any.

“Then we’re past something,” he says quietly.

I nod, fear and truth tangling in my chest.

“I know.”

His hand shifts, brushing mine. We don’t hold hands this time.

“Lana?”

“Yes?” 

“Come closer.” 

It’s not a request. 

I lean in a little, still hesitant. Before I can ask why, he pulls me into him, so I’m laying beside him in the bed.

Too close. Intimate. 

“W-what are you doing?” I yelp. 

“Holding you.” He states the obvious. 

I’m levelled to his chest, when I look up to see him, I find him already staring at me. 

I feel his intense gaze on me, on my lips, and it reminds me of the kiss.

The angry make out session.

My first kiss.

“Aiden—” 

He interrupts me with a kiss. Again. 

And I let him corrupt me. 

Again.  

******

To Be Continued. 

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