Chapter 16 The Things I Cannot Fix
Adrian's POV
For a moment, I do not understand what he has just said.
The words reach me, but they do not settle. They hover somewhere just outside comprehension, as though my mind has decided quietly, stubbornly not to accept them.
More serious than a simple infection.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
My voice sounds steady, even to my own ears, and I almost believe it. But the way the doctor watches me tells me he hears what I don't know, the strain beneath it, the edge I am holding in place with deliberate effort.
“It means we’ve identified indicators that suggest her condition may not be purely viral,” he replies. “There are signs we need to investigate further before we can make a definitive diagnosis.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
Beside me, I feel Darcy shift slightly, not stepping in, not interrupting, but present in a way that keeps me from pushing further than I should.
The doctor nods once, acknowledging the tension without reacting to it.
“I understand this is difficult,” he says. “What I can tell you is that we’re running more specific tests. For now, she’s stable, and that is the most important thing.”
Stable.
The word lands differently this time. It is not reassurance. It is temporary.
“How long?” I ask.
“Results should come in within the next few hours.”
A few hours.
It might as well be a lifetime.
I hold his gaze for a second longer, searching for something certainty, clarity, anything that feels solid. There is none.
He offers a brief nod before stepping away, leaving us in the same corridor that now feels smaller than it did before.
I do not move.
I cannot.
Darcy speaks first.
“We should sit.”
I don’t argue this time.
We return to the chairs, the distance between us smaller than before, though I am not entirely aware of when that changed. My hands rest against my thighs, but they don’t stay still for long. My fingers flex once, twice, as if they need something to hold onto and cannot find it.
“This could still be nothing serious,” she says gently.
I let out a quiet breath, my gaze fixed ahead. “You don’t believe that.”
“I believe we don’t know yet,” she replies.
It is a careful answer. Honest without being cruel.
I nod slightly, though I am not sure what I am agreeing to.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The corridor continues around us, people passing, voices murmuring, doors opening and closing but it all feels distant, like it belongs to a different world.
Then, without planning to, I say, “Her mother hated hospitals.”
The words surprise me as much as they might surprise her.
I have not said anything about Hazel’s mother since Darcy came into our lives. It has been easier that way. Cleaner. More controlled.
But tonight, control feels like something slipping through my hands.
Darcy turns her head slightly, her attention shifting fully to me, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“She avoided them whenever she could,” I continued. “Even when she was pregnant, she argued with every doctor we saw. Said they made everything feel… clinical. Detached.”
A faint, almost invisible smile pulls at the corner of my mouth.
“She wanted everything to feel human.”
The memory settles in my chest, heavier than I expect.
“She would have hated this,” I say quietly, glancing toward the closed door where Hazel lies.
Darcy’s voice is soft when she answers. “She would have been here.”
I swallow.
“Yes.”
There is no hesitation in that.
“She would have been right there with her,” I add, more to myself now. “Not out here. Not waiting.”
The truth of it presses in deeper than anything else.
Darcy shifts slightly, her shoulder brushing mine not deliberately, not dramatically, just a small point of contact that feels grounding in a way I did not realize I needed.
“You’re here,” she says.
It is a simple statement.
But it lands.
“I don’t know if that’s enough,” I admit.
She turns toward me more fully now, her expression steady, her eyes clear in a way that makes it difficult to look away.
“It is for her,” she says. “And right now, that’s what matters.”
I hold her gaze for a moment longer than I should.
There is something in it, something quiet, something certain that makes the noise in my head ease, just slightly.
Before I can respond, the door opens again.
Both of us straighten instinctively.
A nurse steps out this time, holding a small clipboard.
“Mr. Ashford?”
“Yes.”
“We’re preparing to move Hazel for further testing,” she says. “The doctor will speak with you shortly.”
“Move her where?” I ask.
“To imaging,” she replies. “We need a clearer look at what’s happening internally.”
Internally.
The word settles uneasily.
“Can I go with her?”
She hesitates briefly. “You can accompany us to the door, but you won’t be allowed inside during the procedure.”
Of course.
There is always another door.
Another boundary.
Another place I cannot reach.
I nod once. “Alright.”
The nurse disappears back into the room, and moments later, they begin to wheel Hazel out.
I step forward immediately.
She looks even smaller now, wrapped carefully in hospital blankets, the oxygen tube still in place. Her eyes remain closed, her face drawn in a way that does not belong to a child.
My hand finds hers without thinking.
It is warm.
Too warm.
“I’m here,” I say quietly.
It feels inadequate, but it is all I have.
Darcy stands on the other side, her presence steady, her gaze fixed on Hazel with a focus that mirrors my own.
For a brief second, Hazel’s fingers twitch.
The movement is faint, almost imperceptible.
But it is enough.
Enough to hold onto.
They begin to move again, guiding the bed down the corridor.
I walk beside her until we reach another set of doors large, sterile, impersonal.
“This is as far as you can go,” the nurse says gently.
I stop.
My hand lingers for a second longer before I force myself to let go.
They take her through the doors.
And just like that
she is out of reach again.
The doors close with a soft, final sound.
I stare at them, my jaw tightening, my chest heavy with something I cannot push down this time.
Darcy steps closer, her voice quiet but steady.
“She’s still fighting.”
I nod, though the movement feels mechanical.
“Yes.”
Minutes pass.
Then more.
Time stretches again, thin and unforgiving.
I pace once, then stop.
Then again.
Then stop.
There is nothing to do.
Nothing to control.
Nothing to fix.
Only wait.
Eventually, the doors open again.
A doctor steps out, removing his gloves slowly, his expression unreadable at first glance.
I don’t wait for him to speak.
“What did you find?”
He looks at me, then briefly at Darcy, before returning his attention to me.
“We’ve identified something,” he says carefully.
Every part of me stills.
“What kind of something?”
There is a pause.
A measured one.
The kind that prepares you without actually preparing you at all.
“It appears there may be an underlying condition affecting her immune response,” he explains. “It’s causing her body to react more severely than expected.”
I feel the words before I fully understand them.
“Is it treatable?” I ask.
“That depends on the exact diagnosis,” he replies. “We’ll need to run further tests to confirm.”
“How serious is it?” Darcy asks quietly.
The doctor exhales.
And in that moment, I know the answer will not be simple.
“It’s serious enough that we need to act quickly once we confirm what we’re dealing with.”
The corridor feels colder.
Smaller.
Like the air has shifted without warning.
I nod slowly, though the motion feels distant, disconnected from the rest of me.
“Do whatever you need to do,” I say. “Whatever it takes.”
The doctor gives a brief nod before stepping away, already moving toward the next step, the next test, the next answer we are not ready for.
I stand there for a moment longer.
Then I feel Darcy’s hand slip into mine again.
This time, I don’t just allow it.
I hold on.
Because for the first time since this started, I understand something with absolute clarity.
This is not a momentary crisis.
This is something that could change everything.
And as the weight of that realization settles in
Another thought follows, quieter but far more terrifying.
If this is something permanent…
I don’t know how to protect her from it.