[Adrian’s POV]

The ER is chaos, and I’m standing in the middle of it, useless.

Fluorescent lights blaze overhead, harsh and unforgiving, casting everything in a pallid glow that makes the sick look sicker and the healthy look ill. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, mixing with something metallic that I don’t want to identify. Monitors beep in discordant rhythms. Phones ring. Voices overlap in a constant stream of medical jargon I can’t follow. People rush past in scrubs, their faces set with professional detachment that feels almost cruel in its efficiency.

Sophie lies on the gurney in front of me, pale as paper, an oxygen mask over her face. Her eyes flutter open and closed like she’s fighting to stay conscious. Every time they close, my chest seizes with the fear that they won’t open again. Her skin has a grayish tinge that terrifies me, her lips colorless beneath the clear plastic of the mask.

I’ve never felt this helpless in my life.

My hands hang uselessly at my sides. I’m a professor—I solve problems with words and research and carefully constructed arguments. None of that matters here. None of my education or experience has prepared me for watching the woman I love fight for consciousness on a hospital gurney.

“Blood pressure’s stabilizing,” a nurse announces. “We’re going to move her to a room for further assessment.”

“Further assessment?” I step forward. “What does that mean? What’s wrong with her?”

The nurse gives me a practiced, patient look. “Sir, we need to run some tests. That’s standard procedure after a collapse.”

Collapse. The word keeps hitting me like a fist. Sophie collapsed. Sophie, who is stronger than anyone I’ve ever known, who smiled at me two nights ago and told me she was proud of me. Sophie, who carries the weight of everyone else’s problems without complaint, who makes everything look effortless even when I know it isn’t.

She collapsed, and I wasn’t there.

The guilt gnaws at my insides like acid, burning through every excuse I’ve made over the past weeks about giving her space.

Cassian stands beside me, tension radiating off him in waves. His jaw is tight, his hands curled at his sides. I can see the same helpless rage in his posture that I feel coursing through my own veins. For once, we’re united in something other than competition.

“Can we go with her?” he asks.

The nurse shakes her head. “Only one person for now.”

“I’m going,” Cleo says immediately, stepping forward.

Something hot flares in my chest. “Cleo—”

She turns on me so fast I take a step back. Her eyes are blazing, red-rimmed from crying but fierce with protective fury. Her body positioned between me and the gurney like she’s guarding Sophie from a threat.

From me.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice low. “Don’t you dare fight me on this.”

“She needs—”

“She needs space from you. Both of you.”

The words land like a slap. I feel them physically, a sharp sting that makes me flinch. The accusation in her tone cuts deeper than I expected, finding soft tissue I didn’t know was exposed.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand.

“It means she was running, Adrian. Bags packed, letters written, gone.” Cleo’s voice cracks. “And you two were too busy with your own lives to notice she was drowning.”

Letters. The word catches in my throat. Letters she wrote. Letters we were never supposed to receive in person—only find after she was already gone. The image forms unbidden: Sophie at her kitchen table at 3 a.m., crying as she tried to explain the unexplainable.

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