Chapter 15 Relief That Doesn't Last
Darcy's POV
There is a particular kind of silence that settles in hospital corridors after midnight.
It isn’t the absence of sound. The machines still hum, footsteps still pass, voices still murmur behind closed doors. But everything feels muted, as though the world has lowered its voice out of respect for the fragile things being held together inside these walls.
I sit beside Adrian, aware of every shift in his breathing, every small movement of his hands where they rest tense, unmoving against his knees. He has not said anything since the doctor went back inside, and I have learned enough about him to understand that silence, for him, is not calm. It is restraint.
The door has not opened again.
I keep my eyes on it anyway.
“She’s strong,” I say quietly, not because I expect it to change anything, but because the stillness between us has grown too heavy to carry alone.
Adrian lets out a slow breath, his gaze never leaving the door. “She’s one.”
There is no cruelty in his voice. Just something raw, something stripped down to truth.
“She shouldn’t have to be strong.”
My chest tightens.
“No,” I agree softly. “She shouldn’t.”
For a moment, I think that is where the conversation will end. But then he leans back slightly, dragging a hand across his face in a way that feels less like exhaustion and more like someone trying to steady themselves without letting it show.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do right now,” he admits, his voice lower than I have ever heard it. “I built my entire life around control. Fixing things. Making sure nothing falls apart.”
He lets out a quiet, humorless breath.
“And I can’t do anything there.”
I turn to look at him properly.
The man beside me is not the composed figure from magazine covers, not the sharp, untouchable presence that commands boardrooms without raising his voice. He is simply a father sitting outside a closed door, waiting for someone to tell him his child will be okay.
And he has no way to prepare himself if they don’t.
“You brought her here,” I say gently. “You’re here with her. That matters more than you think.”
He shakes his head slightly, not in disagreement, but in frustration.
“It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It never does,” I admit.
He glances at me then, something shifting in his expression. “You’ve been through this before.”
It isn’t a question.
I hesitate, my fingers tightening slightly in my lap.
“Not exactly like this,” I say carefully. “But I’ve taken care of children before. When something is wrong, you don’t get the luxury of falling apart. You focus on what needs to be done.”
“And after?”
His voice is quieter now.
I hold his gaze for a moment, then look away.
“After,” I repeat softly, “you feel everything you didn’t let yourself feel before.”
The words linger between us, carrying more weight than I intended.
Neither of us speaks again.
Minutes pass.
Or maybe longer.
Time stretches in a way that feels endless, each second folding into the next until it becomes difficult to tell how long we’ve been sitting here.
Then the door opens.
Both of us stand at the same time.
The doctor steps out, his expression more composed than before, but not entirely relaxed.
“How is she?” Adrian asks immediately.
“We’ve managed to stabilize her breathing,” the doctor says.
The tension in my chest loosens slightly, but only slightly.
“Managed to?” Adrian repeats, his voice sharp around the edges.
“She responded to oxygen support,” the doctor continued. “That’s a good sign. However, we’re still concerned about the underlying cause of the fever.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means we need to monitor her closely,” he replies. “We’re running additional tests. For now, she’ll remain under observation.”
Adrian exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.
“Can we see her?” I ask.
The doctor nods. “Briefly. She’s still very weak.”
That is all it takes.
Adrian is already moving toward the door before the doctor finishes speaking. I follow closely behind, my heartbeat picking up again as we step into the room.
Hazel looks smaller than I remember.
The hospital bed seems too large for her, the white sheets too stark against her flushed skin. A thin tube rests beneath her nose, and the steady sound of the monitor fills the space in a way that feels too loud for such a small body.
Adrian stops at her bedside, his movements slowing as though he is afraid of disturbing something fragile.
“Hazel,” he says quietly.
Her eyes flutter slightly at the sound of his voice.
It is a small reaction, barely noticeable, but it is enough.
Something in his expression shifts, softens, steadies.
I move closer, standing on the other side of the bed. For a moment, I didn't reach out. I just look at her, taking in the rise and fall of her chest, the faint crease between her brows as though even in this state, she is uncomfortable.
“She knows you’re here,” I say softly.
Adrian doesn’t respond, but his hand moves carefully to rest against hers, his fingers large against her tiny palm.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs.
The words are simple, but there is something in them, something unguarded that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
I glance away, giving him that moment.
After a while, the nurse gently reminds us that Hazel needs to rest, and we step back reluctantly. Adrian lingers for a second longer before finally pulling his hand away.
We leave the room in silence.
The door closes behind us once more.
But this time, it doesn’t feel as suffocating.
“She opened her eyes,” he says quietly, almost as though he needs to say it out loud to believe it.
I nod. “She did.”
He runs a hand through his hair again, but the movement is less frantic now, more grounded.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly.
I look at him, surprised. “For what?”
“For being here,” he replies simply.
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say softly.
“I do.”
There is no hesitation in his tone this time.
“I wouldn’t have handled this well on my own.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I don’t say anything.
We sit back down, the tension easing just enough for the exhaustion underneath it to begin surfacing.
For the first time since we arrived, the fear loosens its grip just slightly.
But not enough.
Because something still doesn’t feel settled.
I glance toward the door again, a quiet unease settling in my chest.
“They said they’re still looking for the cause,” I say.
Adrian nods slowly. “I heard.”
Silence falls again, but it feels different now.
Not as sharp.
Not as suffocating.
Just… waiting.
Then, after what feels like too long, the door opens again.
This time, it isn’t the same doctor.
A different one steps out, holding a file.
And something about the way he looks at us makes my stomach drop before he even speaks.
“Mr. Ashford,” he says carefully, “we’ve received some of the test results.”
Adrian straightens beside me.
“What is it?”
The doctor hesitates.
And in that hesitation, I feel it again that quiet, creeping dread.
“The infection…” he begins slowly, “it’s not what we initially thought.”
My fingers curl slightly against my palm.
“Then what is it?” I ask, my voice quieter than I expect.
The doctor exhales.
And when he finally answers
everything shifts.
“Your daughter’s condition may be more serious than a simple infection.”