Page 65 of Unleashed By Eden

Just let him be okay.

If the universe takes him now, I will never fucking forgive it.

I sit beside him and place my hand on his knee. He reaches for it without even looking, fingers weaving through mine again. But the grip is harder this time.

There is absolutely nothing I can do to fix any of it. It’s out of my control. Out of his control, and all we can do is hold on and hope for the best.

So I hold on, and I don’t let go.

***

The whole day feels like it stretches into a year.

Bloods first. Vials filling with dark red.

Then ultrasound gel spread over his abdomen, the wand pressing into his ribs.

MRI. CT.

Every machine has its own sound, its own rhythm. Beeps, whirs, the heavy thud-thud of magnets charging. I stay with him for everything I’m allowed to, watching nurses tape cotton to the crook of his arm, watching him disappear into white tubes and loud coffin-like structures.

I try to keep up a low mutter of shit talk to fill the silence—complaints about hospital gowns, quips about how the MRI sounds like a nineties techno remix—anything to take his mind off all of this. Most of it lands flat. I don’t blame him. My heart’s not in it, either.

Carter doesn’t flinch or complain, not once. There are no smart-ass remarks. He does whatever they ask, like he’s already accepted the verdict and is here for the paperwork.

He looks . . . done.

I don’t know if that’s better or worse.

When he’s finished, Dr. Soria runs through everything in a calm, careful voice. There won’t be any results today, of course. Today is about data collection, imaging, and numbers. If anything throws up red flags, there’ll be more tests. Maybe a biopsy or something else.

Carter nods through it, expression barely shifting.

I sit there and quietly hate on Maeve, who taught him to meet fear by flattening himself out instead of asking for help.

When the SUVs drop us back at the hotel, the sun’s gone down. Being constantly on the move has finally caught up with us.

We end up in his suite, shoes kicked off near the door, clothes shed on the way to the bathroom. We shower fast, nothing sexy about it, washing the hospital and the anxiety of the day off our skin.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re cross-legged on his couch with a spread of Spanish takeout between us. Patatas bravas, tortilla, grilled octopus, two tubs of gambas al ajillo, croquetas in a greasy paper bag. Not what he wanted at first. We spent twenty minutes doom-scrolling delivery apps, arguing over the merits of ordering local food versus ordering burgers.

In the end, tapas won because he got sick of scrolling and told me to pick something before he ate his own arm.

Carter cracks open the container of patatas and eyes me over the lid. “If this tastes like shit, it’s on you. You picked.”

“I chose the only place that didn’t require me to translate a novel from Spanish while you breathed down my neck.”

His head jerks up. “I didn’t breathe down your neck.”

“You hovered,” I say, spearing a potato and waving it at him. “You were close enough to fog up my screen.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “Shut up.”

I hold the fork out. He leans in and takes the bite straight off it. Chewing slowly, his eyes narrow.

“It’s good,” he admits at last.

“I know. I have taste.”