Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Haydn

As we pull into the hospital parking lot, my grip tightens around the steering wheel, knuckles going white. I’m here for her, supposed to be her rock, the one thing that’s steady while her world flips upside down. But every nerve in my body feels like it’s been stretched too tight, ready to snap. And I don’t know if I’m holding it together for her, or if I’m barely hanging on myself.

Keane Stone. Her fiancé. I thought he was a ghost, a guy who existed in some past life I’d never have to worry about. Someone she’d loved, sure, but someone who was gone. But now . . . now he’s here. Awake. Alive. The words feel surreal, like they haven’t fully registered yet. Not just alive, but close by, somewhere in this building, waiting for her.

I’m still trying to process what that means. For her.

For me.

For us.

I park the car, and we just sit there in silence, neither of us moving. Ophelia stares straight ahead, her eyes unfocused, like she’s here but somehow miles away. She’s got that distant look, the one that says she’s barely holding herself together, hanging on by a thread that could snap at any moment. And I have no idea how to fix that for her. I don’t even know if there’s a place for me in whatever she’s about to walk into.

I keep telling her I’m here . I keep saying it over and over, like that’ll make it true. I’m here, Pia. I’m right here. But am I, really? Or am I just the guy who’ll be holding her hand while she walks back into the arms of a man she never truly let go of?

And there it is—my own ugly insecurities, clawing up from the pit of my stomach. This feeling that I’m not enough, that I’m the stand-in, the consolation prize. For years, Pia and I have been everything to each other, building a life together piece by piece. But there’s always been this shadow in the background, this unspoken third party who never quite left. Keane Fucking Stone.

It was fine, or at least manageable, when he was just a memory. Because even when I was competing with a ghost, there was no real threat. He was someone she’d loved, yes, someone she mourned. But he was gone, frozen in time—a perfect memory I could never touch, but also one I didn’t have to face.

But now . . . now he’s here. Alive. Awake. Not some distant piece of history, but a real, breathing man lying in a hospital bed somewhere in this building. A man who, in some other version of her life, might have been her forever.

I swallow hard, staring straight ahead, trying to shove down the bitterness, the jealousy, the gnawing fear that maybe . . . maybe there isn’t room for both of us in her heart. And if that’s the case, where does that leave me? What am I supposed to be in this new story she’s walking into? The guy who holds her coat? Oh wait, it’s summer, and she doesn’t need me for that.

The patient boyfriend who watches her unravel over a love that was never supposed to come back?

Or just the fucking bastard standing on the sidelines, pretending I’m enough while she pieces together the life she thought she’d lost. Fuck, the thought makes me sick, twisting something deep inside me, but I can’t shake it.

Because I want to be enough for her. I want to be the one she turns to when her world is falling apart, the one she leans on when everything feels impossible. But this isn’t just any storm we’re walking into. This is him. The man she thought she’d spend her life with, the one she built all her dreams around long before I even came into the picture. And as much as I try to ignore it, a part of me has always wondered if I was just holding space in her heart, filling a role that was never really mine to keep.

I glance at her, still frozen in the passenger seat, her face pale and unreadable. There’s something haunted in her eyes, something that tells me she’s already slipping away, retreating into memories that don’t include me.

I reach over, my hand finding hers, and she grips me like I’m her lifeline, fingers trembling slightly. “You ready?” I ask.

She nods, but it’s a small, uncertain movement. “I don’t know,” she whispers, her eyes finally flicking over to me, wide and filled with something I can’t quite name. Fear? Guilt? Maybe both. “I’ve no idea how to do this. No one prepared me for it.”

“No one prepared us for life and we still manage,” I say, swallowing back my own doubts, the ones clawing at the edges of my mind. “I’m right here. Whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out together.”

She doesn’t respond, just bobs her head a couple of times, her gaze fixed on the hospital entrance like it’s some portal to a life she thought she’d left behind. And for the first time, I’m terrified that when she walks through those doors, I’ll lose her. Not to a memory, but to a man who never really left her heart.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to let go of her hand, to give her the space she needs, even if it kills me. I’ll follow her inside. I’ll stand beside her. But the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll be enough. Not this time.

And there go my insecurities thinking I’m not enough even when for years we’ve been everything for each other. Our only problem has been . . . Keane Fucking Stone.

We get out of the car, and the hospital looms over us, gray and clinical, like a fortress holding back some terrible truth. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, to push down the knot of jealousy and insecurity twisting in my gut. Because as much as I want to be here for her, there’s a small, ugly part of me that wonders—what’s my role now?

Inside the lobby, she’s quiet, lost in thought. I stay close, my hand resting on her back, but every second feels like I’m walking a tightrope, waiting to see if I’ll lose my balance. The receptionist directs us to the recovery floor, and we ride the elevator up in silence. The faint hum of machines fills the hallway as we step out—a low, ominous sound that hangs in the space between us.

Ophelia is tense beside me, every muscle tight, her hands clenched at her sides. I want to say something to comfort her, to tell her it’s going to be okay, but I don’t know if it will be. I don’t know what she’s going to feel when she sees him, and I don’t know if I’m ready to find out.

The elevator dings, and we emerge onto the fourth floor. The smell of antiseptic and bleach hits me, sterile and cold. I’ve been in places like this before—for injuries, stitches, concussions from hockey games—but this is different. This isn’t about me, or some broken bone that’ll heal in a few weeks. This is about her. Her past, her grief, her entire life before I ever came along.

We reach his room, and I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She’s frozen, staring at the door like it’s the gateway to something she’s not ready to face. Her whole body is tense.

For a second, I think maybe she’ll turn back, that maybe she’ll decide she doesn’t need this, doesn’t need him. That she’ll choose us, our life together, instead of diving back into the pain and chaos he represents.

But that’s not who Pia is. She’s his guardian now, responsible for this man in ways I can barely wrap my head around. And knowing her, she’d never walk away from someone who needed her, no matter how much it tears her apart. That’s the kind of person she is—the kind who will hold her ground even when every instinct is telling her to run.

She lets out a shaky breath, and I feel the tremor in her fingers. Then, without another word, she steps forward, her hand slipping from mine as she crosses into a past that, for all my love, I can’t protect her from.

And suddenly, I realize I’m terrified. Terrified of what this means for us, terrified that I’ll lose her to a man she thought was gone. Because how can I compete with that? How can I stand next to the man she was supposed to marry, the man she grieved for, and pretend I’m enough?

She steps forward, her hand reaching out slightly, fingers trembling, and I stand there, rooted to the spot, my throat tight with jealousy and fear. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be right now. Her boyfriend? Her support? Or just the guy who’s about to watch her fall back into a love that might never have died.