Chapter 14 Behind That Door
Adrian's POV
Hospitals have a way of making time feel dishonest.
The second we step through the emergency entrance, everything begins to move too quickly and not quickly enough at the same time. Nurses approach us almost immediately, their voices calm, practiced, asking questions I should be able to answer but cannot seem to form properly in my head.
Darcy speaks instead.
“She has a fever. It came on suddenly,” she explains, her voice steady despite the way Hazel is pressed against her chest, small and burning. “She’s been restless for hours, but this is different.”
They take Hazel from her arms, and something in me reacts before I can think it through. My hand lifts instinctively, as though I can stop them, as though I can keep her where I can see her, where I can reach her.
“She’s my daughter,” I say, more sharply than I intend.
One of the nurses nods, already moving. “We’re taking her in now, sir. You can follow.”
Follow.
As if that is enough.
As if distance, even a few steps of it, doesn’t feel like something dangerous.
I walk beside the moving bed, my eyes fixed on Hazel’s face. Her cheeks are flushed in a way that looks wrong, her lips parted slightly, her breathing uneven. She makes a small sound barely there and it lands somewhere deep in my chest, sharp enough to stay.
I have heard her cry loudly, stubbornly, demanding to be held or fed or entertained.
This is not that cry.
This is something quieter.
Something that doesn’t fight.
We are stopped outside a treatment room, and they wheel her in without us.
The door closes.
And just like that, I am no longer where she is.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until Darcy’s hand touches my arm.
“Adrian.”
Her voice is low, not urgent, not panicked. Just a present.
I look at her, and for a moment I don’t recognize what I see in her expression. There is fear there, yes, but it is controlled, held in place by something stronger. She is thinking, observing, steady in a way I am not.
“They’re going to take care of her,” she says.
I exhale slowly, forcing the air out of my lungs. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” she replies, and there is no false reassurance in her tone. “But they know what they’re doing.”
I run a hand through my hair, pacing once across the small waiting space before stopping again. The room feels too bright, too clean, too indifferent to what is happening inside that closed door.
“I should have noticed earlier,” I say, more to myself than to her. “If she was restless, if something was off—”
“You couldn’t have known,” Darcy interrupts gently.
“I should have.”
The words come out sharper than intended, edged with something I can’t quite contain.
She doesn’t argue immediately. Instead, she studies me for a moment, as though choosing her response carefully.
“Even if you had noticed earlier,” she says, “we would still be here. You brought her in as soon as it mattered. That’s what counts.”
I let out a quiet, humorless breath. “That sounds like something people say when they don’t want to admit the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That I missed something important.”
There is a brief pause between us, not uncomfortable, but heavy.
Then she steps a little closer, just enough that I am aware of her without feeling crowded.
“You didn’t miss her,” she says softly. “You brought her here. You’re here now. That’s what she needs.”
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t know how to.
The door opens then, and a doctor steps out, already removing his gloves.
“What’s happening?” I ask immediately.
“We’re running tests,” he replies. “Her temperature is quite high, and we want to rule out any serious infection.”
“What kind of infection?” I press.
“It’s too early to say,” he answers. “We’ll know more soon.”
Soon.
Another vague word.
Another stretch of time that feels like it could mean anything.
He disappears back into the room before I can ask anything else.
Darcy moves to sit down, her hands folded loosely in her lap, her posture calm in a way that doesn’t feel forced. I remain standing for a moment longer before eventually lowering myself into the chair beside her.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence isn’t empty, but it isn’t comfortable either. It’s filled with everything we’re not saying, everything we’re both thinking but choosing to keep contained.
After a while, she leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.
“She’ll be alright,” she says, almost to herself this time.
I glance at her. “You sound certain.”
“I’m not,” she admits. “But I know she’s strong.”
Something about the way she says it makes me look at her more closely.
“You talk about her like you’ve known her for years.”
A small, almost absent smile touches her lips. “Babies aren’t that different from each other when it comes to needing comfort. They just want to feel safe.”
“And you make her feel that.”
She doesn’t answer immediately, and for a moment I think she might deflect the comment.
Instead, she says quietly, “I try.”
There is something about that response, simple, unclaimed that settles somewhere deeper than I expect.
Before I can say anything else, a sharp sound comes from inside the room.
Not loud.
But wrong.
Darcy’s head lifts immediately, her attention snapping toward the door. I straighten in my seat, every muscle in my body tightening without permission.
The door opens again, faster this time.
The doctor steps out, his expression more focused than before.
“What is it?” I ask, already standing.
“We’re seeing a slight complication,” he says.
The word lands heavily.
“What kind of complication?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more controlled—but only just.
He hesitates, and that hesitation tells me more than his words do.
“Her breathing is becoming irregular,” he says carefully. “We’re going to assist her and stabilize things.”
Assist her.
Stabilize.
Words that shouldn’t feel as serious as they do.
Darcy stands beside me now, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her presence without looking at her.
“Can we see her?” she asks.
“Not right now,” the doctor replies. “We need space to work.”
He turns and goes back inside before either of us can respond.
The door closes again.
This time, it feels final.
I stare at it, my jaw tightening, my hands curling into fists at my sides as I try to keep myself still.
“She’s not breathing properly,” I say, the words coming out low, almost disbelieving.
Darcy doesn’t answer immediately.
Then I feel her hand slip into mine.
Not tentative.
Not unsure.
Just there.
Grounding.
“She’s not alone,” she says quietly.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, holding onto that single point of contact as everything else threatens to spiral.
On the other side of that door, machines begin to sound steady, controlled, but faster than before.
And for the first time since we arrived, a thought pushes through everything else, sharp and unavoidable.
This is not just a fever anymore.
Something is wrong.
Something we cannot fix ourselves.
And as the sound of hurried movement rises behind that closed door, I realize with a clarity that leaves no room for denial.
I am about to find out what it feels like
to lose something I cannot survive without.