They screeched to a halt outside the emergency entrance, tires screaming against the pavement. Aaron barely registered the blur of hospital staff swarming the car, their urgent voices overlapping in a rush of commands and questions.
"She was in an accident," he managed to choke out, his voice raw with panic and desperation. They pulled Arna from the seat with practiced hands, lifting her onto a stretcher. Aaron stumbled after them, every step heavy, as if he were wading through quicksand.
The world felt surreal—sounds were muffled, time stretched and contracted. He watched helplessly as she disappeared behind the swinging doors of the emergency room, leaving him stranded in a corridor bathed in harsh fluorescent light. It felt too bright, too clinical for what he was feeling. His chest was tight, his hands trembling. He couldn't shake the sight of her blood, the way her breaths had come so ragged, as if each one might be her last.
The minutes that followed dragged on mercilessly. He paced the cold tile floor, every second a torment. His mind spun with fear and fragments of memory. He had watched over her for so long, from the shadows—always making sure she was safe, even when she didn't know he was there. Arna had always been strong, relentless, driven by a fire few could understand. Now, seeing her broken, fragile, hanging by a thread—it tore something deep within him apart. He had promised himself he'd keep her safe. He had failed. He let out a ragged breath, feeling the weight of that failure press down on him. But he wasn't ready to let go—not yet. Not ever.
Finally, a nurse approached him, her expression a mix of exhaustion and reassurance. "She's stabilized and awake," she said softly. Relief crashed over him like a wave, leaving him weak and unsteady. But it was laced with dread. He nodded numbly, gathering every shred of courage he had left before he stepped into her room.
His breath caught the moment he saw her. She lay against the sterile white of the hospital bed, pale, bruised, and bandaged. Her eyes fluttered open with effort, their usual intensity dulled but unmistakable. Seeing her like this—vulnerable and fragile—was almost too much to bear.
She blinked, focusing on him with difficulty. Aaron stepped closer, afraid to break the fragile moment. Recognition flickered across her face, slow and hesitant. Her gaze, once sharp and unyielding, was now searching, questioning.
"Aaron?" she whispered, her voice thin and trembling with emotion.
The way she looked at him—it was so many things at once: confusion, a plea, perhaps a hint of understanding. It cut deeper than he thought possible.
He moved closer, every step heavy with the weight of what he felt—love that never dimmed, guilt for not shielding her sooner, and a fear so deep it left him breathless. He hesitated, his heart a tangled mess as he searched for the right words.
"I'm here," he managed, his voice betraying the tremor he tried to hide.
She looked at him, eyes glassy and full of unspoken questions. He wanted to shield her, to erase every ounce of pain etched into her face, to make it all disappear. He swallowed hard, knowing that once they crossed this line, there'd be no turning back. For now, all he could do was be present, a silent promise that he'd stay and fight whatever battles were yet to come.
Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an anchor in the haze of pain and confusion. When she closed them, tears slipped free, trailing down her pale cheeks. It tore through him, like an ache that settled deep in his bones. Her forehead creased with tension, and for a moment, she seemed to drift somewhere else—between reality and the shadows of whatever nightmare she was fighting to escape.
When she opened her eyes again, they found him. There was a flicker of recognition, of fragile understanding, before she looked down at herself—at the bandages, the bruises. She tried to speak, but a sharp breath escaped her, a wince betraying how frail her strength really was. Her tears gathered again, brimming over, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her mask slipped. Vulnerability cracked through the determined front she always wore.
Her gaze met his, raw and unguarded.
"Aaron… please… I need a favor," she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation and a fragile thread of trust. It was a plea that shattered whatever defenses he had left.
His heart cracked at the sight of her so fragile, and he dropped to his knees beside her, taking her cold, trembling hand in his. For years, he'd lingered in the shadows, silently shielding her from dangers she never even knew about, never once imagining this moment—where all barriers fell, and she'd need him not as a stranger or a colleague, but as someone she barely knew yet instinctively reached out to.
"Anything," he promised, the words escaping with a strength he wasn't sure he still possessed. Beneath the surface, emotion swirled, threatening to pull him under, but he held steady for her sake. "I'll do whatever you ask." The weight of his words pressed on him; this wasn't just a promise. It was a vow to protect, to fight every shadow that dared touch her again.
He couldn't let her down again. Not after everything that had happened. This time, there would be no hesitation, no distance between them. He'd protect her—from Brandon, from the chaos that was threatening to engulf her, even from himself. Whatever it took, whatever cost he had to pay, he would do it.
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, and he felt a chill run down his spine.
"Take care of my car and the belongings in there. No one should know about it."
The request startled him, but it was the fear in her voice that sent a jolt through him. She lowered her gaze, her words trembling with uncertainty, as if she was afraid of something far worse than the pain she was enduring. The way she spoke, the hesitation—it was clear that whatever was in that car, whatever she was hiding, was tied to a deep fear.
"Please…will you just do that for me?"