Quentin's expression doesn't soften, but his voice does. "I hear you."
Luther leans forward. "Quentin, if the medication was in him, why didn't it stop this?"
"Because medication lowers risk," Quentin says, attaching a portable lead with firm, efficient movements. "It doesn't make a stressed heart invulnerable. We'll talk about mechanism at the hospital. Right now, I need you to keep the hallway clear and let me hand him over cleanly when the ambulance arrives."
Luther nods like the words cost him something to obey.
The paramedics reach us minutes later through the private elevator Grayson had cleared. The hallway fills with equipment, wheels, clipped questions, the smell of cold air from outside. Quentin gives them the summary before they can ask twice. Cardiac history. Collapse. Irregular rhythm. Medication taken. Acute stress event. Monitor logs available. He speaks in a language that turns my terror into facts other people can use, and I hate him for one second because facts aren't enough to hold Blake's hand.
Then Blake's fingers curl weakly around mine.
I forgive Quentin immediately.
The paramedics lift Blake onto the gurney, and I stand with him because letting go isn't possible. His eyes are closed again, oxygen mask against his face, skin still too gray beneath the office lights. The straps make him look like someone being taken from me instead of someone being helped, and I know that's panic talking, but knowing doesn't make my hand open.
"I'm coming with him," I say.
No one argues at first. Then one of the paramedics says there's room for one in the ambulance, and the words ripple through the pack like a second impact. Luther's already moving toward me, not to take the place, not to pull rank, but to make sure I don't have to fight for it while my hands are shaking.
"Luca goes," he says.
Grayson appears beside me with Rosalie still crying against his shoulder and James tucked close to his side. His eyes are red, but his voice is steady when he says, "We'll bring the kids. Maceo and I'll be right behind you."
Samuel's voice rises behind Maceo. "Where's Daddy Blake going?"
"To the hospital," Maceo tells him, crouching so he's lower, so his body stays between the children and the gurney while still telling the truth. "The doctors are helping his heart. We're all going."
"All of us?" Samuel asks.
"All of us," Maceo says.
I follow the gurney toward the elevator with one hand on the rail and the other still wrapped around Blake's fingers. Quentin walks on the other side, already speaking to the hospital, his voice low and fast. The elevator doors open, and for one horrifying second the space narrows. A paramedic shifts. Someone tells me to step back. Blake's hand slips.
I make a sound I don't recognize.
Then Luther's hand closes around mine from behind, hard and warm and real. He doesn't pull me back. He holds on and moves with me, anchoring me as the gurney rolls forward and the elevator swallows us in bright metal and reflected fear.
"You're with him," Luther says near my ear, and his voice breaks on the last word. "I've got you. We've got both of you."
I look down at Blake's closed eyes, at the fog of his breath against the oxygen mask, at the pale fingers still caught in mine. My tears keep falling, but my spine stays straight.
"Don't you dare," I whisper again as the doors close. "We're not done."
23
Luca
The hospital doors open before the gurney reaches them, and the smell hits me hard enough that I almost stumble. Clean floors, sharp disinfectant, old coffee, the cold rush of air from vents working too hard. I've been in hospitals before. I know what they sound like. I know the clipped footsteps, the wheels over seams in the floor, the soft alarms hidden behind closed curtains. None of that helps when Blake's the one on the gurney with an oxygen mask over his face and my fingers locked around his hand.
I keep walking beside him because nobody's told me to stop yet. The paramedic on his other side's giving numbers to the nurse who meets us at the doors, and Quentin's already there, moving with them like he belongs to the hospital more than any of us do right now. A woman I recognize from Wilson's Rebirth pack walks at his shoulder, tall and calm, dark hair braided back, ID badge clipped to the pocket of her white coat. Dr. Aris. I've seen her at two fundraisers and one emergency consult at Ember House. I remember her voice more than her face because she speaks to frightened Omegas like she expects them to understand every word.
Quentin looks at me once, and whatever he sees must be bad because his hand closes over my shoulder for half a second before he turns back to the nurses. "Bay Four," he says. "Cardiac team's ready. Medication list and monitor logs are coming through now. Dr. Aris is consulting with me."
I want to ask if that means Blake's worse than they thought. I want to ask if he's dying. I want to ask why his hand's warm now when his face still looks wrong, why his breathing fogs the oxygen mask but his fingers don't move when I squeeze them. Instead, I walk until the doors stop me.
A nurse steps in front of me with a gentleness that makes it worse. "You need to wait here for a few minutes."
"No." The word tears out before I can make it reasonable. My hand tightens around Blake's. "No, I'm his husband. I'm staying with him."
