In the backseat—Noah sat, ghost-pale, beside her.
His hand clutched his left thigh, blood blooming beneath his fingers, soaking through the fabric, sliding downward in silent streaks that darkened the cuff of his pants.
Celeste said nothing.
She tore the hem of her shirt in one clean motion, wound the strip around his leg, and pressed both palms over the wound—steady, unflinching.
The warmth of his blood spilled into her hands, slick and searing, as if his body was still deciding whether to surrender or survive.
Up front, Steve drove in silence.
The GPS was off. No music. Just the low thrum of the engine and the uneven rhythm of breath unraveling between them.
"This won't be enough," she said, voice low.
"The cut's too deep. We need to take you to the ER."
Noah shook his head.
Hard.
Too hard.
The kind of refusal that had nothing to do with logic.
"No. Please—not the ER."
His voice cracked—raw and breathless.
His eyes began to blur, and in them she saw not pain, but something older.
Fear layered over memory.
His breathing turned ragged. Sweat gathered at his brow.
Then—
Stillness.
Not peace—but the kind that came just before a body shut down.
Celeste's gaze sharpened.
His focus was gone.
His hands trembled as he stared at the blood on his palms—not with panic, but with the eerie vacancy of someone who had seen it all before.
"Noah."
She called to him.
He didn't respond.
He drew his hands over his face—as if trying to block the world out.
His shoulders shook, but he made no sound.
He was unraveling, folding inward like paper wet with grief.
She scanned the street beyond the glass, her breath held tight.
Then, with steady fingers, she reached for her phone.
"Howard, We're five minutes from the Nest,"
she said quickly.
"I need a doctor. Someone clean. Sutures, no questions. Now."
The moment the call ended, Noah swayed—and his weight tipped against her.
His head came to rest on her shoulder, quiet as breath.
"Noah," she said again, this time closer. Firmer.
"You're okay. Breathe. Slow. I'm here. I'm right here."
His breath caught, then stuttered. And something in him finally heard her.
He closed his eyes.
Her hands were still pressed against his leg.
Her body anchored his. And in the hush that followed, his breathing began to steady.
Not perfectly—but enough.
And slowly, with the faintest nod, he answered her.
You are here.
And for now—that was enough to survive this silence.