Chapter 19 The Door Again
Darcy's POV
The corridor feels different when you are no longer being watched.
Not by doctors or nurses or the quiet urgency of people who already know more than you do, but by the weight of your own thoughts finally catching up with you.
The moment the door closes behind me, I stop.
Not completely my feet still carry me a few steps forward but enough that I feel the shift. Inside that room, everything is immediate. Focused. Every breath Hazel takes matters in a way that leaves no space for anything else.
Out here, there is space.
Too much of it.
I press my hand lightly against the wall, the cool surface grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed. My shoulders ache, my head feels heavier than it should, and for the first time since we rushed through those hospital doors, I allow myself to feel how tired I actually am.
Not just physically.
Everything.
The fear.
The waiting.
The quiet understanding that this might not be something that ends when we leave this place.
I close my eyes for a moment, just long enough to steady myself, then push away from the wall and begin walking.
There is a small seating area further down the corridor, half-empty at this hour. I lower myself into one of the chairs, exhaling slowly as I lean back.
For a few minutes, I do nothing.
I don’t check the time. I don’t look at my phone. I don’t try to make sense of everything the doctors said.
I just sit.
And then, without meaning to, my thoughts drift somewhere I have been careful to avoid.
To Adrian.
The way his voice changed when he thought something was seriously wrong.
The way his hands didn’t know where to rest unless they were holding onto Hazel.
The way he looked at her not as something fragile, but as something he could not afford to lose.
I’ve seen parents worry before.
But this was different.
This wasn’t just fear.
It was… attachment so deep it bordered on desperation.
And for the first time since I met him, I understood something clearly.
Adrian Ashford is not in control when it comes to his daughter.
He just pretends to be.
The realization settles quietly in my chest, heavier than I expect.
Because it changes things.
It makes him less distant.
Less untouchable.
More… human.
And that is dangerous.
For me.
I shift slightly in my seat, pressing my hands together as if that will help me refocus.
This is not why I’m here.
I didn’t walk into that building to become part of someone’s life. I came looking for stability, for something simple, something that didn’t come with complications I couldn’t manage.
But somewhere between Hazel’s small hands reaching for me and Adrian’s quiet, unspoken trust, things have already begun to blur.
I exhale slowly.
This is not the time to think about that.
Not when Hazel is still inside that room.
Not when nothing is certain.
My gaze lifts toward the hallway, instinctively tracking every movement near the door, even from this distance.
Minutes pass.
Or maybe longer.
Time doesn’t feel consistent here.
At some point, a nurse walks by, offering me a polite smile. I don't have the energy to return properly. Another family sits across from me, speaking in low voices, their own worries contained within their small space.
Everyone here is waiting for something.
Some answers.
Some outcome.
Some version of relief.
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, my fingers loosely intertwined.
“You should eat something.”
The voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I looked up, surprised.
It’s one of the nurses from earlier, the one who had been assisting in Hazel’s room. She stands a few steps away, holding a small paper cup.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She gives me a knowing look. “You’ve been here all night.”
“I’m not the one in the hospital bed.”
“No,” she agrees gently. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to take care of yourself.”
For a moment, I consider arguing.
Then I don’t.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
She nods, setting the cup down on the small table beside me before moving on.
I stare at it for a second, then pick it up, taking a small sip. It’s just water. Nothing special. But it helps more than I expect.
Simple things tend to.
I’m halfway through the cup when I hear footsteps approaching again.
Familiar ones.
I don’t need to look up to know it’s him.
“You didn’t leave.”
Adrian’s voice is quieter now, less strained, but still carrying that underlying tension that hasn’t fully eased.
I glance up.
He looks different.
Not rested far from it but steadier. Like being in the room with Hazel, seeing her breathing, holding her hand, has anchored him in a way nothing else could.
“I said I wouldn’t,” I replied.
He nods once, as though he expected nothing less.
For a moment, he just stands there, looking at me in a way that feels… searching.
Then he takes the seat beside me.
Neither of us speaks immediately.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable.
It feels earned.
“She’s sleeping,” he says after a while.
“That’s good.”
“They’ve adjusted her treatment. The doctor said we’ll know more later today.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Another pause settles between us.
Then, more quietly, he says, “She kept holding onto my hand.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“She trusts you,” I say.
His jaw shifts slightly, as if he’s considering that.
“I don’t know if I’ve done anything to deserve that kind of trust,” he admits.
I turn to him fully now.
“You don’t earn that from a child,” I say gently. “You just show up. Consistently. That’s enough for them.”
He looks at me, really looks this time, as though trying to understand something beyond the words.
“And you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“She reaches for you too.”
The question isn’t spoken outright.
But it’s there.
I hold his gaze for a moment, then look away, focusing on the cup in my hands.
“I think she just likes being held,” I say lightly.
He doesn’t respond immediately.
And when I glance back at him, I can tell he doesn’t believe that answer.
But he lets it go.
For now.
Instead, he leans back slightly, exhaling in a way that feels less heavy than before.
“Thank you,” he says again.
I shake my head faintly. “You’ve already said that.”
“I don’t think I’ve said it enough.”
His tone is quiet, but there’s something firm beneath it.
Something that doesn’t feel like an obligation.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I don’t try.
We sit there for a while longer, the tension between us shifting into something quieter, something less defined.
Until
A sudden movement down the hall catches my attention.
A nurse walking quickly.
Too quickly.
Toward Hazel’s room.
My body reacts before my mind does.
I stand.
Adrian is already on his feet beside me.
We don’t say anything.
We don’t need to.
We move at the same time, our steps quickening as we head toward the door.
By the time we reach it, another nurse has already gone inside.
The door closes.
Again.
That same door.
That same barrier.
I feel that sharp, familiar drop in my chest.
Adrian’s hand finds the handle before I can stop him.
“Adrian”
But he’s already pushing it open.
And the moment the door swings wide
I know something is wrong again.