Her phone buzzed in the dark like a living thing. The screen's glow sliced a harsh rectangle across the hotel room ceiling, painting her face in cold light. Maya rolled over, still wrapped in the warmth of the comforter, and blinked at the notification.
At the top:
Girl, you won't believe who I met. Call me when you see this. -- Tessa.
Below it: a string of missed calls from Ethan, stacked like a silent alarm.
A leaden weight spread through her stomach. She fumbled for the call button. It rang once before a voice, raw and frayed, answered.
"Maya?"
"Ethan? What...?"
"It's Mom." A breath caught on the other end. "She collapsed. We're at St. Vincent's. ICU. Please, just come."
She sat up so fast the sheets tangled around her legs. "What? How..."
"They don't know yet. She's unconscious. Maya, hurry."
"I'm..." She couldn't breathe. "I'm coming."
The line went dead. For a heartbeat she stared at the screen, frozen. Then Damien's voice came out of the dimness.
"Maya?" He was propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes alert. "What is it?"
"My mom," she heard herself say, though her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. "She...she's in ICU. She..."
He was already out of bed. He crossed the room in three strides, pulling her jacket from the back of a chair, gathering her bag. "Get dressed," he said quietly but firmly. "We're leaving now."
Her hands shook as she shoved her arms into her sweater. The room blurred around her. Damien's fingers brushed hers when she fumbled with the zipper, steadying it for her. His touch was warm, steady. "Breathe," he murmured. "I've got you."
They moved through the hotel like ghosts. In the elevator she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall -- pale face, wide eyes -- and didn't recognize herself. Damien stood close, his hand sliding down until their fingers laced. The slow circles of his thumb against her palm were the only thing anchoring her.
Outside, the night air hit like ice. Damien had already called a car. He held the door, guided her in, then spoke to the driver in a low, rapid voice. The city rushed past in streaks of sodium light. Buildings blurred. Horns bleated somewhere far away. Damien's hand stayed over hers, grounding her every time she felt she might float apart.
"Keep breathing," he said softly. "In. Out."
She did, counting his breaths when she lost track of her own.
The airport, security, the flight -- she only remembered flashes: Damien's palm at her back steering her through crowds, the weight of his jacket over her shoulders when she started to shiver, the low murmur of his voice to a gate agent. She hadn't asked him to come; he hadn't asked if he should. He simply came.
When the taxi pulled up to St. Vincent's the sky was turning from black to steel gray. The hospital loomed pale and impersonal, glass catching the first, weak light. Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and faintly of coffee from a vending machine. Her stomach rolled.
Ethan was waiting by the ICU corridor. His eyes were red-rimmed, his shirt untucked. The moment he saw her he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. She felt the tremor running through his body.
"She's stable for now," he said against her hair. "They're running tests. It's bad."
Maya pulled back, searching his face. He hesitated, then added, quieter, "Dad's here too."
The word landed like a stone. She didn't look toward the waiting chairs. She didn't care. Her father was the least of her worries. Her mother was everything. All the anger she had stored up for years felt like dry paper next to the terror now blooming in her chest.
Damien came to stand beside her, silent, a steadying presence. His arm slid around her waist. She leaned into him instinctively, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt. Ethan noticed but said nothing, only squeezed her shoulder before stepping aside.
They started down the corridor together. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man hunched in a plastic chair, head in his hands -- her father -- but she kept her gaze fixed on the ICU doors and the soft, sterile light glowing behind the glass. Nurses moved past on rubber soles. Machines beeped faintly. The smell of disinfectant stung her nose.
Damien's palm stayed at the small of her back, thumb moving in slow circles she barely felt. She wanted to turn fully into him, bury her face against his chest, but her legs kept moving on their own. Fragments of memory rose unbidden: her mother's hand smoothing her hair before school; her laugh over burnt toast; the smell of her perfume lingering on a scarf. Maya bit the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood.
"She's strong," Ethan whispered. "She'll fight."
Maya nodded but couldn't trust her voice. Damien stood like a wall at her side, silent, unyielding. He had flown with her without a question, arranged everything without asking for thanks. That thought cracked something open in her chest even as the ache inside her sharpened.
Minutes dragged into a slow, heavy procession. The corridor's clock ticked like a hammer. A nurse pushed a cart past, metal rattling softly. Someone coughed in a chair. The ICU doors stayed shut.
Maya's fingers curled and uncurled at her sides. She focused on the small things: the texture of the vinyl bench beneath her, the coldness of the tile through the soles of her shoes, the faint tremor in Damien's thumb against her back that told her he was worried too. Ethan kept pacing, stopping every few steps to look at the door. No one spoke.
Finally the doors swung open. A doctor stepped out, peeling off gloves, his white coat catching the harsh light. Everyone straightened as if yanked by an invisible string. Ethan's grip tightened on Maya's hand. Damien's touch at her back grew firmer, as if he could hold her upright by sheer will.
The doctor's eyes swept the small group and stopped on them. His voice was even, professional, but the weight of it filled the corridor.
"Where's the family of the patient?" he asked.