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I stop cold in the doorway and turn to look at her. For a second I can’t even process what she just said. The blood is roaring so loud in my ears I almost think I misheard her.

“Because it’s my fucking son, Ronnie,” I snap, voice low and shaking with rage. “What the fuck do you mean ‘why do I need to go’? My son is in the ER.”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but I don’t give her the chance. I slam the door behind me and take the stairs two at a time, already running.

Chapter fourteen

Blaire

Imight be crying more than Theo at this point. I’m perched on the edge of the narrow hospital bed with one arm curled around his shoulders, pressing kiss after kiss to his temple like I can somehow undo the last hour if I just stay close enough. The shock has worn off for him—he’s calm now, happily working on his second popsicle as long as he doesn’t try to move his left arm. Every time he does, his little face scrunches up and the waterworks start again.

I haven’t felt this kind of bone-deep terror since he was eight months old and came down with RSV while Simon was deployed. Back then I’d sat in a different hospital room, alone, watching machines beep around my tiny baby. Tonight feels just as helpless.

The door flies open and Simon bursts in, eyes wild, chest heaving like he ran the whole way from the parking lot.

“Daddy!” Theo immediately starts crying again the second he sees him.

“Hey, bud. Hey, I’m here.” Simon crosses the room in three long strides, leaning over the bed to fuss over him. His big hands are gentle as he examines the small cut on Theo’s forehead that’s finally stopped bleeding. After a moment he looks up at me, brow furrowed.

“He was in his room,” I start, voice still shaky. “I thought he was asleep. I was half-asleep on the couch and he—”

“I jumped on the bed and fell,” Theo announces, sounding weirdly proud of himself between sniffles.

“Hit his head on the nightstand,” I finish, swallowing hard. “And I’m pretty sure he broke his wrist. I’m so sorry, Simon. I thought he was asleep. I didn’t know he’d—”

“This was an accident,” Simon says quietly, cutting me off. His voice is steady, reassuring. “It’s not your fault, Blaire.”

He’s leaning in close—closer than he’s been in months—his face just on the other side of Theo’s small body. I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the familiar golden flecks in his eyes, the worry lines etched between his brows. His gaze lingers on mine, then drops, sweeping slowly over my face before it catches on my mouth.

Something tightens in my chest.

“Daddy, wan’ more popsicle,” Theo whimpers, breaking the moment.

Simon’s eyes stay on me for one heartbeat longer before he blinks and shifts his attention back to our son, his entire expression softening into something lighter.

“Another one? How many have you had already?” he teases, plucking the empty stick from Theo’s sticky fingers.

“He’s had two,” I say with a small, watery laugh, pressing another kiss to Theo’s temple.

“But my arm hurt,” Theo whines, clearly milking the sympathy.

Simon chuckles and ruffles his hair. “What did the doctor say?”

“They’re certain it’s broken,” I tell him. “Head’s fine—just a small cut. They’re taking him back for X-rays soon and probably some wound glue for his forehead.”

Simon leans in again to examine the cut more closely, his fingers gentle. “Yeah,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Probably just some glue. That’ll be fine.”

“Theodore Crane?” There’s a soft knock, followed by a man no older than twenty-two poking his head into the room. He’s pushing an empty wheelchair, looking between the two of us with the kind of polite detachment that only comes from working in an ER at this hour.

“Yeah,” Simon says, already rising to his feet.

“I’m here to take Theodore to X-ray. Only one parent can come back with him.”

The orderly glances between us, waiting. Simon’s eyes find mine immediately, and I can practically feel the assessment happening in real time. I must look like hell. I’d barely managed to throw on athletic shorts and a tank top when the ambulance arrived—hadn’t even grabbed a bra—and my hair is a tangled mess shoved into a bun. My face is blotchy and swollen from crying, and I know my eyes are still red-rimmed.

Simon hesitates for half a second, then offers quietly, “Let me go with him. Take a second to breathe.”

I want to argue. The words are right there on my tongue—No, I’ll go, I need to be with him—but my chest feels too tight and my head is still spinning. The sound of Theo’s panicked crying is still echoing in my ears, and the whiplash of having Simon this close, looking at me like that, isn’t helping. I do need a minute. Just one.