The air was soft. Clean. Heavy with that distinct scent of antiseptic and faint lavender soap — maybe from the fresh gown or sheets.
Billy hadn't stirred again. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm, lashes fluttering now and then, but no sign of waking yet.
Camila sat with her chin resting on her palm, watching him in that quiet, protectively annoyed way only siblings know how to.
"You always had to do things the dramatic way," she murmured, lips curling faintly. "Even a nap looks poetic on you."
She glanced over her shoulder. Their mother had stepped out for a moment — probably to take a call. Maybe to breathe. Camila didn't ask.
Billy's hand, the one resting on the blanket, looked smaller today. Softer.
She reached out, just barely brushing her fingers against his.
"I know you're scared," she whispered. "I am too. But… you're not alone, okay? Not anymore. You've got me, and Mom, and—"
She stopped herself.
