Chapter 18 Between Breaths
Adrian's POV
The change is small.
Anyone who isn’t watching closely might miss the slight break in rhythm, the way the sound from the monitor shifts just enough to feel wrong. But I have been watching her for hours now, measuring every breath, every movement, every flicker of change like it is the only thing that matters.
So I hear it immediately.
“What is that?” I ask.
The nurse looks up at the same time, her attention snapping toward the screen. The calm in her posture tightens, not into panic, but into something sharper. Focused.
“I need you both to step back,” she says.
Darcy moves first.
Not away from Hazel, but back just enough to give space, her hand slipping from Hazel’s without resistance. I follow a second later, though every instinct in me resists it.
Hazel’s breathing shifts again.
It isn’t dramatic. Not like in films where everything suddenly spirals into chaos. It is subtle, uneven, like her body is trying to find a rhythm and missing it by seconds.
But those seconds matter.
They matter more than anything.
The nurse presses a button, her voice calm as she calls for assistance. Another nurse enters almost immediately, followed by a doctor I don’t recognize. They move around the bed with quiet efficiency, adjusting the oxygen, checking readings, speaking in low, quick tones that don’t reach me fully.
I take a step forward without thinking.
Darcy’s hand closes around my wrist.
“Adrian,” she says softly.
Not a command.
Not a plea.
Just my name.
It is enough to stop me.
Barely.
“They need space,” she adds.
I nod, though the movement feels strained, my eyes never leaving Hazel as they work around her.
“She was fine,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. “She was awake. She—”
“She still is,” Darcy replies gently. “This doesn’t mean she isn’t.”
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t know if that’s true.
The doctor adjusts something near Hazel’s face, his expression focused but not alarmed. One of the nurses checks the monitor again, her fingers moving quickly but steadily.
“How long has this been happening?” I ask.
The doctor glances at me briefly. “It just started. We’re correcting it.”
Correcting it.
Another temporary word.
Another thing that doesn’t promise anything beyond the moment.
Hazel makes a faint sound, barely audible over the machines.
My chest tightens.
“I’m here,” I say again, even though I’m no longer close enough for her to feel it the same way.
The doctor nods toward the nurse. “Increase support slightly.”
The nurse adjusts the oxygen.
Seconds pass.
Too slowly.
Too loudly.
Then
the rhythm begins to steady.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough that the sharp edge in the room softens just slightly.
The doctor watches the monitor for a few moments longer before stepping back.
“She’s stabilizing,” he says.
The words land, but they don’t settle.
Because I have already learned what they mean.
For now.
Only for now.
Darcy’s grip on my wrist loosens, her hand sliding down to mine instead. I don’t pull away. I don’t even think about it.
I just hold on.
The nurses begin to step back, their movements less urgent now, though their attention remains fixed on Hazel. The doctor turns toward us fully this time.
“Her system is still under stress,” he explains. “These fluctuations can happen while we’re managing the underlying issue.”
“And this is part of that?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies. “It’s not unexpected given what we’re seeing.”
Unexpectedly.
The word doesn’t help.
Nothing about this feels like something that should be expected.
“What happens if it gets worse?” I ask the question leaving my mouth before I can stop it.
The doctor doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Then we intervene more aggressively.”
Aggressively.
I nod slowly, though my mind doesn’t follow the motion.
Darcy steps forward again, her movements careful as she approaches the bed. This time, she doesn’t reach for Hazel immediately. She just stands there, watching, as though giving the moment space to settle before stepping into it again.
After a second, the nurse gives a small nod.
“You can come closer,” she says.
That is all it takes.
I move to Hazel’s side again, slower this time, more aware of everything: the sound of the monitor, the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tension still lingering in the room.
Her eyes are half-open now, unfocused but not empty.
“Tough girl,” I murmur, my voice quieter than before.
Her fingers move weakly against the blanket.
Darcy reaches for her other hand, her touch gentle, grounding in a way that feels natural, not forced.
For a moment, the three of us remain like that.
Close.
Quiet.
Holding onto something fragile.
Then Darcy speaks, her voice soft but steady.
“She’s still fighting.”
I glance at her.
There is no doubt in her expression.
No hesitation.
Just certainty.
I want to believe that.
I do.
But belief feels like something fragile right now.
Something that could break if I hold onto it too tightly.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” I ask quietly, my gaze returning to Hazel. “Constantly waiting for something to go wrong?”
Darcy doesn’t answer immediately.
I feel her shift slightly, her shoulder brushing mine again in that same quiet, grounding way.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But if it is… she won’t be facing it alone.”
The words settle slowly.
Not as reassurance.
Not as a promise.
But as something real.
I nod once.
Because it is all I can do.
Time passes again.
Not as sharply as before.
Not as painfully.
But still uncertain.
Eventually, the doctor steps back toward us once more.
“We’re going to keep her under close observation,” he says. “The next twenty-four hours will be important.”
I glance at him. “Important how?”
“We’ll see how her body responds to treatment,” he explains. “If she stabilizes consistently, that’s a good sign. If not, we may need to escalate further.”
Escalate.
Another word that doesn’t sit well.
“Can we stay with her?” Darcy asks.
The doctor nods. “One of you can remain in the room at a time.”
I don’t even think about it.
“I’m staying.”
Darcy doesn’t argue.
She simply nods, stepping back slightly.
“I’ll be right outside,” she says.
I look at her then.
Really look at her.
There’s exhaustion in her eyes now, carefully hidden but still there. She hasn’t rested. She hasn’t stepped away. She’s been here the entire time, steady in a way I haven’t questioned until now.
“You should rest,” I tell her.
“So should you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Neither am I,” she replies softly.
There’s no stubbornness in it.
Just quiet resolve.
Something in my chest tightens again, but this time it isn’t fear.
Not entirely.
I nod once. “Alright.”
She gives a small nod in return before stepping toward the door.
Just before she reaches it, she pauses.
“Adrian.”
I look up.
“She’s stronger than she looks,” she says.
Then she steps out.
The door closes behind her, leaving me alone in the room with Hazel.
The silence settles differently this time.
Not empty.
Not overwhelming.
Just… quiet.
I pull the chair closer to her bed and sit, leaning forward slightly, my hand resting carefully against hers.
Her fingers curl weakly around mine.
And for a moment, everything else fades.
The machines.
The doctors.
The uncertainty.
All of it.
There is only this.
Only her.
“I’m here,” I say again, softer now.
She doesn’t respond.
But she doesn’t pull away either.
And that is enough.
For now.
But as I sit there, watching the slow, uneven rhythm of her breathing, a thought begins to form quiet at first, then louder with every passing second.
This isn’t over.
Not even close.
And whatever comes next…
I don’t know if I’m ready for it.