I just blink at her, mouth half open.
“Fine. I’ll drop it. For now,” she says, sighing. “Let’s head back and see if there’s any word.”
I swallow, nod, and let her loop her arm through mine again as we head back to the waiting room.
Hours pass. The adrenaline wanes, replaced by exhaustion and a dull ache behind my eyes. I send Dita home after her thirdyawn. Chance comes out a couple times, updating us on Lexi—she’s doing great, but still has hours to go.
It’s been four hours when Franco finally reappears. I’m up before he’s even fully in the room.
“Did everything go okay? Can we see him?” I blurt out.
Franco smiles, steady and reassuring. “Yes. Surgery went incredibly well. Surgeon said he was lucky. It could have been worse.”
Jen moves to stand beside me. “Well, that’s a relief. What’s the rehabilitation time?”
Franco blows out a breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Well, like I said, he was lucky it wasn’t worse. That, paired with him being young and athletic, should reduce his rehab time. But—”
“But it’s career-ending, isn’t it?” Jen asks, blunt.
I snap my head toward her, stunned she’d say it out loud.
Franco’s shoulders sag. “It’s too early to tell, but this injury has ended a lot of promising careers.”
My heart clamps tight. “Fuck. Does he know that?”
Franco hums. “They’ve gone over the surgery with him, including the metal rod and pins in his tibia, and the rehab plan. He’s so out of it, though, I don’t think anything is really sinking in, you know?”
Jen nods. “Yeah. One thing at a time. How loopy is he?”
Franco grins. “Let’s just say they have him on the good stuff and when they told him they put a rod in him, he said—and I quote—‘Wow. Couldn’t even buy me dinner first?’”
Jen nearly doubles over laughing. I can’t help it. My mouth twitches into a genuine smile. First one all day.
“Can we see him?” I ask.
Franco nods. “Yes, he’s out of recovery. He’s asking for ‘perfect’ again, so we should probably go. I can take you up to his floor now.”
I offer Jen my arm. Together, we follow Franco to the elevators, everything else falling away as we head up to see him.
Franco leads us to Ryan’s room and pauses in the hallway, lowering his voice. “I’ll leave you guys to it. He’s going to need his rest. You can stay as long as you want, but if he starts dozing off, let him.”
Jen and I both nod. Franco gives us a reassuring smile before heading down the hall. Jen opens the door, and I follow her in, bracing myself. The beeping and low hum of the machines make my skin crawl. When I see Ryan—pale, hooked up to IVs, leg propped and bandaged—my heart sinks. He looks so frail in that hospital bed. But then he grins, eyes shining, and slurs, “Perfffect. There you are.”
Jen snickers, tossing her bag in a chair. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
Ryan shakes his head, slow and loose, like his neck barely works. “No, you’re Shen. Shenny-Shen. Shenny from the block.”
I bark a surprised laugh and Jen groans. “I’ll let that go because you’re injured,” she says, pointing at him.
Ryan just grins, then pats the bed next to his good leg. “Come here, Perfect.”
I glance at Jen, who gestures at the bed, eyes bugging out in mocking exasperation. “Go on. You two have been whining incessantly for each other all afternoon. Sit.”
I sigh, but my chest feels lighter. Crossing to the bed, I sit gently, careful not to jostle him. Ryan gives me my favorite smile—dimples deep, eyes soft—and whispers, “Hi.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, run my hand through his hair without thinking. “Hi.”
I smooth his hair back, then let my hand fall to the bed by his thigh. Under the sheet, I feel Ryan’s fingers searching for mine. He moves the sheet and laces our hands together, his grip warm and familiar. “My perfect,” he murmurs.
