𝘢𝘴𝘩

Yn is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her side. Her work clothes are torn. Her blouse is ripped at the shoulder, dark with something that isn't water. Her face is pale—too pale, the kind of pale that makes his stomach drop—and there's a cut above her eyebrow, blood dripping down her cheek in a slow, lazy line.

She's not wearing shoes.

"Harry," she says, and her voice is wrong. Slurred. Too quiet. "I think I—I think something happened."

She takes one step forward. Two.

And then her knees buckle.

Harry moves before he thinks.

He crosses the kitchen in three strides, catching her under the arms before she hits the ground, lowering her carefully onto the tile. His hands are already running over her—a reflex, years of training, a lifetime of muscle memory—and his brain is screaming at him in a language he knows too well.

ABC. Airway, breathing, circulation. Airway first.

"Yn. Look at me." He cups her face, tilts her chin up, checks her pupils. Her left pupil is sluggish. Slower than the right. His heart seizes. "Baby, I need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?"

"'M awake," she mumbles. Her eyes are glassy. She blinks too slowly. "Just tired. 'M so tired, Harry."

"I know. I know you are." He runs his hands down her neck, her collarbones, checking for deformity, for step-offs. "Did you drive? Were you in the car?"

"Tree." Her brow furrows, like she's trying to remember. "There was a—a dog. Or something. In the road. I swerved."

"Where's the car?"

"Don't... don't remember. Close. I walked."

She walked. Jesus Christ. She walked home after crashing at seventy miles per hour. The adrenaline must have been astronomical—and now it's wearing off, and her body is starting to realize what happened, and Harry is kneeling on his kitchen floor with his fiancée bleeding in his arms and he doesn't know how bad it is yet.

But he's about to find out.

"Yn, I need to check you over. It's going to hurt." He presses his palm to her cheek, and she leans into it, her eyes fluttering. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. But I need you to stay still and stay awake. Can you do that?"

"Don't wanna go to the hospital," she whispers.

"We'll talk about that later. Right now, I need you to breathe for me. Deep as you can."

He unbuttons her blouse with shaking hands—steady, Styles, you've done this a thousand times—and pushes the fabric aside. His breath catches.

Her left side is already bruising. A deep, angry purple spreading from her ribs down to her hip. He presses gently along the curve of her ribs, and she screams.

Not a gasp. Not a whimper. A full, throat-tearing scream that makes him want to throw up.

"I know," he says, and his voice cracks. "I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I have to check."

Her ribs are unstable. Floating. He can feel the crepitus under his fingers—the horrible grinding of bone against bone—and he knows what that means. Broken ribs. Multiple. Probably flail segment, which means—

"Take another breath for me, Yn. As deep as you can."

She tries. He watches her chest rise, and on the left side, it doesn't move right. It caves in. Paradoxical movement. Flail chest.

And her breathing is fast. Too fast. Shallow.

Tension pneumothorax. The thought hits him like a freight train. Air leaking from her lung into her chest cavity, pushing her trachea, collapsing everything. If he doesn't decompress it, she'll—

No. He's not going there.

"Harry." Her voice is small. Scared. "Hurts to breathe."

"I know. I know it does, angel." He presses two fingers to her neck, counting her pulse. Tachycardic. Thready. She's losing blood somewhere. "I need to call an ambulance."

"No."

"Yn—"

"No hospital." She grabs his wrist, and her grip is weaker than it should be. "Just—just give me something. Painkillers. I'll rest. I'll be fine."

"You have broken ribs, Yn. You might have a collapsed lung. You might be bleeding internally." He keeps his voice level, even, the way he does with scared families in the trauma bay. But this is different. This is her. "You are not fine. And you are not staying here."

"Harry, please—"

"No." His voice sharpens. "This is non-negotiable. You are going to the hospital, even if I have to carry you there myself."

He's already pulling out his phone, dialing 911, giving their address in a voice that doesn't sound like his own. The operator asks questions—is she conscious, is she breathing, is there severe bleeding—and he answers on autopilot while his other hand holds hers, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckles.

"Harry," she whispers again, and there are tears in her eyes now. "I'm scared."

He hangs up. Drops the phone. Leans down so his forehead touches hers.

"I know you are. But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He kisses her temple, gentle, avoiding the cut. "The ambulance is five minutes out. You're going to stay awake for me until they get here, and then you're going to let them take care of you, and I'm going to be with you the whole time. Okay?"

"'Kay."

"Say it back."

"I'll stay awake."

"Good girl."

The ambulance ride is a blur of sirens and fluorescent lights and hands that aren't Harry's. He rides in the back with her, holding her hand, telling her names of stars and the capital of every country he can think of just to keep her talking.

"Tell me about the wedding," he says, when her eyes start to droop. "You picked out flowers last week. What color?"

"White," she murmurs. "And... and eucalyptus."

"What kind of white? There's a million kinds of white. You told me that. You were very passionate about it."

A ghost of a smile. "Peony. Garden rose. Something called... 'Quicksand.'"

"Quicksand? That's a flower?"

"It's a... it's a rose. It's blush. But mostly white." Her grip on his hand tightens. "Harry, it hurts."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." He looks at the paramedic, who's already hanging a bag of fluids. "Can you give her something for the pain?"

"Already on board," the paramedic says. "Morphine, four milligrams. Should be kicking in soon."

Harry watches her face. Watches the way her brow slowly unclenches, the way her breathing stays too fast but her eyes get a little softer.

"There you go," he murmurs. "That's better, isn't it?"

"Mmm." She blinks up at him. "You're pretty."

He laughs, and it comes out wet. "You're on drugs."

"Still true."

The ambulance hits a pothole, and she gasps, and he stops laughing.

The trauma bay is chaos.

Harry steps back when they wheel her in—he has to, he's not on shift, he's not a doctor here, he's just a man in jeans and a sweater with his fiancée's blood on his hands—but he doesn't leave. He stands in the corner, arms crossed, watching as the team swarms around her.

"Female, thirty-two, high-speed MVC, walked home post-accident, found down by fiancé," the paramedic rattles off. "GCS 14, unequal pupils, obvious chest wall trauma with respiratory distress, suspected tension pneumothorax, multiple lacerations, hypotensive in the field—"

Harry tunes out the rest. He's watching her face. She's looking for him in the crowd of scrubs and stethoscopes, and when she finds him, her eyes fill with tears.

"Harry," she says, and her voice breaks.

He moves.

He doesn't think about protocols or visitor policies or the fact that he's technically not supposed to be in the trauma bay. He walks to her side, takes her hand, and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

"I'm here. I'm right here."

"Don't leave."

"Never."

The trauma surgeon—a woman with kind eyes and steady hands—introduces herself as Dr. Chen. She looks at Harry, recognizes him from a conference last year, and doesn't tell him to leave. She just nods once and gets to work.

"Let's get a chest X-ray," she says. "And page surgery. I want a FAST scan and a head CT."

Harry watches them cut off her clothes. Watches them expose the bruising on her ribs, the swelling on her abdomen, the laceration on her scalp that's still oozing blood. He watches Dr. Chen listen to her lungs, her expression going tight.

"Diminished breath sounds on the left," Dr. Chen says. "Harry, you're a trauma surgeon. You want to do the honors or should I?"

He's not supposed to. He's not on her case. But Harry looks at YN—at the way she's gripping his hand like he's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth—and he makes a decision.

"I'll do it."

He scrubs his hands in the sink, puts on gloves, and picks up the scalpel. The room goes quiet. Dr. Chen holds the ultrasound probe over YN's chest, confirming what he already knows—a massive pneumothorax, lung completely collapsed, everything shifting to the right.

"Yn, I need to put a tube in your chest," he says, keeping his voice soft. "It's going to hurt, but it's going to help you breathe. Do you understand?"

"Will you hold my hand?"

"I'll hold your hand with one hand and put the tube in with the other. I'm very talented."

She laughs weakly, and it hurts her, but she doesn't let go of him.

He positions himself at her side. Dr. Chen hands him the scalpel. And Harry—Harry who has done this procedure hundreds of times on strangers, on people whose names he never learns, on bodies that feel nothing—makes a small incision between her ribs and feels his own heart crack.

"Deep breath for me, sweetheart."

She breathes. He pushes the tube through the chest wall, into the pleural space, and there it is—the rush of air, the hiss of the lung re-expanding, the beautiful sound of her chest rising and falling the way it's supposed to.

"Good," he breathes. "That's so good, baby. You did so good."

The chest tube is secured. The drainage system bubbles quietly. And Yn is still looking at him, still holding his hand, still alive.

Dr. Chen orders a head CT and a pan-scan. Harry follows the gurney to radiology, still holding her hand, still whispering.

"You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you. Just a few more minutes, and then we'll get you fixed up, and you can rest."

"M'not doing anything," she slurs. "You're doing everything."

"That's my job."

"Your job is... saving people."

"Today, my job is saving you."

The CT results come back forty-five minutes later.

Harry is in the waiting room—they made him leave for the actual scan, something about radiation exposure, and he spent twenty-three minutes pacing a hole in the linoleum floor—when Dr. Chen finds him.

"We have a skull fracture," she says, holding the films up to the light. "Linear, non-depressed, temporal region. No active bleed, but she has a moderate concussion. We'll monitor her neuro status overnight."

Harry nods. He was expecting that. "What else?"

"Abdomen. She has free fluid in her peritoneal cavity. We're calling it a positive FAST—she's bleeding internally, and she needs a laparotomy. We're taking her to the OR in ten minutes."

Harry closes his eyes. A laparotomy means opening her abdomen, finding the bleed, stopping it. It means hours under anesthesia, hours of him waiting in a plastic chair with bad coffee and worse thoughts.

"Who's operating?" he asks.

"Chang. He's good. You know him."

Harry does know him. Michael Chang is one of the best trauma surgeons in the state. He's also a friend. And right now, Harry needs to trust him.

"Can I see her before they take her up?"

Dr. Chen hesitates. Then she nods. "Five minutes. She's in bay three."

Yn is awake when he gets there. Barely. Her eyes are half-closed, and there's an oxygen mask over her face, and someone has put a cervical collar around her neck even though her spine is fine. She looks small. She looks breakable. She looks like the person he's supposed to spend the rest of his life with, and she almost died tonight.

"Hey," he says, sitting on the edge of her bed. "They're going to take you to the OR in a few minutes. You have some bleeding in your belly, and they need to fix it."

Her eyes widen. "Surgery?"

"Just one surgery. A small one. And then you'll be done, I promise." He brushes her hair back from her forehead, careful of the laceration. "Dr. Chang is going to take care of you. He's very good. He once took out a gallstone the size of a golf ball."

"That's... gross."

"It was impressive." He presses his lips to her forehead. "I'm going to be right here when you wake up. I'm not leaving the hospital. Do you hear me?"

"'M scared."

"I know." He pulls back so she can see his face. "But I'm not scared. Because I know you're going to be fine. You're too stubborn to die on an operating table."

"Harry."

"I'm serious. You once argued with me for forty-five minutes about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. You're not going anywhere."

She laughs, and it hurts her, and he hates himself a little for making her laugh. But she's smiling. She's still smiling.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you too." He kisses her forehead again, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "Now go be the most dramatic patient Michael's ever had. I'll see you on the other side."

They wheel her away. Harry watches until the doors close. Then he puts his head in his hands and doesn't move for a very long time.

The surgery takes three hours.

Harry spends them in the waiting room, alternating between pacing, staring at his phone, and drinking vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt regret. He texts her mom—she's in surgery, she's going to be fine, I'll call you when she's out—and then turns his phone off because he can't handle any more questions.

He thinks about the last thing they argued about. It was stupid—something about where to hang a picture in the hallway, her wanting it higher, him wanting it lower. He thinks about how he'd let her hang every picture in the house at whatever height she wanted if it meant she'd come out of this okay.

He thinks about the ring on her finger. The one he spent six months saving for, the one he hid in his sock drawer, the one he put on her hand last month in their living room while she was crying happy tears and saying "yes, yes, yes" over and over again.

He thinks about a world where she doesn't come out of this, and he has to stop thinking about it because he can't breathe.

At 11:47 PM, Dr. Chang comes out.

Harry is on his feet before the door finishes swinging.

"She's stable," Michael says, pulling off his scrub cap. "Lacerated spleen. We were able to repair it without removing it. She lost about a liter and a half of blood, but we transfused two units, and her vitals are solid. Chest tube is in place, lung is fully expanded. Skull fracture is non-operative—we'll just watch it."

Harry sags against the wall. "Thank you. Michael, thank you."

"She's a fighter." Michael claps him on the shoulder. "She's in the SICU. You can see her in about twenty minutes, once we get her settled."

Harry nods. He waits eighteen minutes—because he's never been good at waiting—and then he's walking into the SICU, past the beeping monitors and the hushed voices, to the bed in the corner.

Yn is asleep.

She looks pale against the white sheets. There's a tube coming out of her chest, connected to a bubbling drainage system. There's an IV in each arm, a pulse ox on her finger, leads on her chest. Her abdomen is bandaged from sternum to pelvis, the dressing clean and white. There's a small gauze pad taped above her eyebrow where they stitched the laceration.

Harry pulls up a chair. He sits. He takes her hand—the one without the IV—and holds it between both of his.

"Hi," he whispers. "I'm here."

She doesn't respond. She's sedated, intubated, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator. But her hand is warm. Her fingers curl around his, just a little, like even unconscious she knows he's there.

Harry lowers his head to the edge of the bed. And for the first time since he saw her standing in the doorway, he cries.

She wakes up twenty-six hours later.

The first thing she sees is Harry. He's in the chair next to her bed, head tipped back, mouth slightly open. He hasn't shaved in two days. There are dark circles under his eyes. His sweater is the same one he was wearing when she walked in the door—except now it has blood on it. Her blood.

She tries to say his name, but her throat is dry, and there's a tube in her mouth, and she can't—

"Easy, easy." Harry is awake instantly, leaning over her, his hand on her forehead. "You're intubated. Don't try to talk. Just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

She squeezes.

"Good girl." His eyes are wet. "You're in the SICU. You had surgery on your spleen last night. Your lung collapsed, but we put a tube in, and it's healing. You have a concussion and a small fracture in your skull, but your brain is fine. You're going to be fine."

She squeezes his hand again. Harder.

"I know. I know you have questions. But you need to rest right now, okay? They're going to take the tube out in a few hours, and then you can talk my ear off as much as you want."

She doesn't want to talk. She wants to sleep. But she also wants to look at him—at his stupid beautiful face, at the worry etched into every line of it—and she wants to tell him she's sorry for scaring him, for swerving, for walking home instead of calling an ambulance, for all of it.

Instead, she just holds his hand and closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, the sun is up, and the tube is gone, and Harry is still there.

The next week is a blur of pain and sleep and Harry.

He doesn't leave. She's not sure if he's officially on leave or if he just stopped showing up to work, but every time she opens her eyes, he's there. Reading in the chair. Sleeping in the chair. Eating bad hospital food out of plastic containers. Holding her hand.

"You need to go home," she says, on day three. Her voice is still raspy from the tube, and her ribs ache every time she breathes, and she's so tired she can barely keep her eyes open. "You need a shower. And real food."

"I showered in the on-call room."

"That doesn't count."

"I used soap."

"Harry."

"Yn." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm not leaving. Stop asking."

She wants to argue, but she's too tired. So she just watches him rearrange her pillows for the fifth time, tucking the blanket around her legs, checking the chest tube drainage like he can't help himself.

"You're hovering," she says.

"I'm monitoring."

"You're hovering."

He sits on the edge of her bed, careful to avoid the tubes and wires, and cups her face in his hands. "I almost lost you. I'm allowed to hover."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You have a chest tube and a skull fracture and an incision that goes from here to here." He traces a line down her abdomen, light as a feather. "But you will be fine. Because I'm going to make sure of it."

She leans into his touch. "I love you."

"I love you too." He kisses her forehead. "Now go back to sleep. The nurses get grumpy when you're awake during shift change."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been here longer than they have."

Day five, she gets discharged.

Harry handles everything—the paperwork, the prescriptions, the follow-up appointments, the careful instructions about showering and lifting and driving. He carries her bag. He helps her into the car. He drives five miles under the speed limit the whole way home, and she doesn't tease him about it because she's pretty sure he'll cry if she does.

Home is strange.

It smells like garlic and rosemary, still, faintly—the sauce he was making when she walked in the door. She looks at the kitchen floor and sees the spot where she collapsed, scrubbed clean but somehow still there in her memory.

"Don't," Harry says softly, coming up behind her. "Don't think about it."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"Because I'm thinking the same thing." He wraps an arm around her waist—carefully, so carefully—and guides her toward the stairs. "Bed. Now. You've been upright for twenty minutes, that's your limit."

"I'm not an infant."

"You're a trauma patient. Same thing."

He helps her up the stairs one step at a time, his hand on her back, his body blocking her from falling if her knees give out. She hates needing help. She hates the way her body feels foreign and fragile, held together with stitches and staples and prayers.

But she loves the way he holds her. The way he treats her like something precious.

He gets her settled in bed—their bed, the one with the soft sheets and the pillows she stole from his side—and then he disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, cabinet doors opening, the sound of him organizing things on the counter.

When he comes back, he's carrying a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, and a small notebook.

"Harry."

"What?"

"Why do you have a notebook?"

"To track your vitals." He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for her wrist. "I'm going to check you every four hours. BP, HR, O2 sat, temperature, and I'm going to look at your incisions."

"You're not a nurse."

"I'm a trauma surgeon. I'm overqualified to be a nurse."

"You're obsessed."

"I'm thorough." He wraps the cuff around her arm and starts pumping. "There's a difference."

She lets him do it. Lets him record the numbers in his little notebook, lets him lift her shirt to check the dressing on her abdomen, lets him listen to her chest with a stethoscope he apparently brought home from the hospital.

"Your lung sounds good," he murmurs, pressing the cold metal to her back. "No diminished breath sounds. Chest tube site looks clean."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're alive." He puts the stethoscope down and kisses her forehead. "I'm going to be ridiculous for as long as it takes."

The first three days at home are... intense.

Harry wakes her up every four hours, even at 2 AM, to check her vitals and give her pain medication. He hovers in the doorway when she uses the bathroom. He won't let her walk down the stairs by herself. He won't let her shower without him sitting on the toilet lid, reading aloud from a book to keep her company, ready to catch her if she slips.

"Harry, I can wash my own hair."

"You can't lift your arms above your shoulders. You have a skull fracture."

"It's a hairline fracture."

"It's still a fracture." He squeezes shampoo into his palm and starts working it through her hair, gentle, methodical. "Stop arguing and let me take care of you."

She closes her eyes. His fingers feel good—scratching her scalp, working out the tangles, massaging the tension from her neck. She leans back against the shower wall and lets him do it.

"You're good at this," she mumbles.

"I've had practice."

"On who?"

"On you. You're always getting into trouble." He rinses her hair, cupping his hand over her forehead to keep the water out of her eyes. "Remember when you fell off that ladder trying to change a lightbulb?"

"I was fine."

"You had a sprained wrist for three weeks."

"Fine."

He laughs, and the sound echoes off the tile, and she thinks maybe being taken care of isn't so bad.

Day four is when she almost ruins everything.

Harry is in the shower—his first real shower in days, because he's been too busy monitoring her to take care of himself. She can hear the water running, hear him humming something soft and low, and she looks at the clock and thinks: I have fifteen minutes.

She's hungry.

Not snack-hungry. Starving. The kind of hungry that comes from eating hospital food for a week and then sleeping through three meals because the pain meds knock her out. She wants a sandwich. A real sandwich. With bread and cheese and maybe that pesto from the fridge.

She shouldn't get up. She knows she shouldn't get up. Harry's rules are very clear: Do not get up without me. Do not walk down the stairs. Do not lift anything heavier than a book. Do not be a hero.

But she's so tired of being helpless.

So she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Stands up slowly, holding onto the nightstand. Waits for the dizziness to pass. Takes a step. Then another.

The stairs are harder.

She goes one step at a time, holding the railing with both hands, her abdomen screaming with every movement. The incision pulls. The chest tube site—still healing, still tender—throbs in protest. But she makes it. She makes it to the bottom of the stairs, makes it to the kitchen, makes it to the counter.

The bread is in the cabinet above the microwave.

She has to reach for it.

She stretches her arm up—too high, too fast—and feels something pull in her abdomen. A sharp, tearing pain that makes her gasp, makes her drop the bread, makes her double over with her hand pressed to her side.

"No no no no no," she whispers, looking down.

There's blood on her shirt. Just a little. Just a spot. But it's spreading.

"Yn?"

Harry's voice from the top of the stairs. She doesn't answer. She can't. She's too busy trying not to panic.

And then he's there.

He takes the stairs two at a time, still dripping wet, a towel around his waist, his hair soaking wet. He takes one look at her—bent over, hand pressed to her abdomen, blood on her shirt—and his face goes white.

"What did you do?"

"I just wanted a sandwich," she whispers.

He doesn't say anything. He picks her up—not carefully this time, not gentle, just picks her up and carries her to the couch, laying her down like she's made of glass. He pulls up her shirt, and she sees his expression shift from panic to anger to something worse: fear.

"You pulled a stitch."

"I'm sorry."

"You pulled a stitch, Yn. You could have torn the whole repair open. You could be bleeding internally again. You could—" He stops. Presses his palm to his forehead. Takes a breath. "What were you thinking?"

"I was hungry."

"You were hungry?" His voice rises, and she flinches. He sees her flinch, and something in his face cracks. "You almost died. You had a hole in your lung. Your spleen was in pieces, Yn. I watched them put you back together. I held your hand while they cut into your chest. And you—" He looks away, jaw tight. "You couldn't wait fifteen minutes for me to get out of the shower?"

"I didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me?" He laughs, and it's not a happy sound. "You are the love of my life. You are my fiancée. You are the person I have chosen to spend every single day of the rest of my life with. And you think asking me to make you a sandwich is bothering me?"

She doesn't know what to say. The blood on her shirt is still wet. Her abdomen is throbbing. And Harry is looking at her like his heart is breaking.

"I was so scared," he says, quieter now. "When you walked through that door, bleeding, not knowing where you were—I have never been that scared in my entire life. And I have seen people die on my table. I have told families that their loved ones didn't make it. And none of that—none of it—was as hard as seeing you fall in my kitchen."

"Harry—"

"No. Let me finish." He kneels in front of the couch, his hands on her knees, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I need you to understand that you cannot do things like this. You cannot push yourself. You cannot be brave or stubborn or proud. Because if something happens to you—if you tear something open and I can't fix it in time—I will not survive it. Do you understand me?"

She nods. Her throat is too tight to speak.

"I need words, Yn."

"I understand."

"You can't do that again."

"I won't."

"You have to let me take care of you. Even when it's annoying. Even when you're bored. Even when you just want a stupid sandwich." He presses his forehead to her knee. "Please. I'm begging you."

She reaches down and touches his hair. It's still wet from the shower, curling against her fingers. "I'm sorry."

"I know." He looks up at her. "I'm sorry I yelled."

"You were scared."

"Terrified." He takes her hand and presses it to his chest, over his heart. It's pounding. "I love you so much. You can't do that to me again."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

He closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them again, and he's still scared, but he's also Harry—her Harry, the one who catches her when she falls, the one who puts sun cream on her shoulders in Italy, the one who held her hand while they put a tube in her lung.

"Now," he says, standing up. "Let me look at that stitch."

He rechecks the incision. The bleeding is minor—one small torn suture, nothing deeper. He cleans it, tapes it closed, and puts a fresh dressing over it. Then he goes upstairs, puts on clothes, and comes back down to make her a sandwich.

She watches him from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, feeling stupid and loved in equal measure.

He brings her the sandwich on a plate, cut into triangles, with a pickle on the side and a glass of water with ice.

"You're not allowed to eat it in bed," he says. "But you're allowed to eat it on the couch. Baby steps."

"Thank you."

He sits next to her, close enough that their thighs touch, and watches her take the first bite.

"Good?" he asks.

"Good," she says.

He nods. Leans over and kisses her temple. Stays there for a long moment, his lips pressed to her skin, his hand finding hers under the blanket.

"I love you," he murmurs against her hair. "Even when you're an idiot."

"Especially when I'm an idiot."

"Especially then."

Six weeks later, she's cleared for normal activity.

Harry still checks her vitals every morning. Still hovers when she walks down the stairs. Still sleeps with his hand on her stomach, over the scar, like he's making sure it's still there.

She doesn't mind anymore.

She lets him take care of her. Lets him be overprotective. Lets him check her incisions and track her blood pressure and wake her up at 2 AM just to make sure she's breathing.

Because she knows, now, what it cost him. She knows what it means to be loved by someone who almost lost you.

And when he puts a ring on her finger for the second time—not an engagement ring this time, but a wedding band, simple and gold, on a beach in Maine with just their families and the sound of the waves—she looks at him and thinks:

I would survive it all again, just to end up here.

But she doesn't say that. She just kisses him, soft and slow, and lets him hold her like she's something precious.

Because she is.

To him, she always will be.

ONCE THE SECOND group had returned from the challenge arena, it was revealed that Expressions had been the contestant sent home. You were all dropping like flies. Three people gone in one day. And you were certainly feeling it.

As a group, you felt like you were dwindling.

The vibes had certainly dropped with the amount of people that were gone, so you were hoping that sticking by Alfie’s side would make the impact feel lessened.

You’d been spending the rest of the day curled up on his chest, the both of you going back and forth over the things that had occurred over the past year you’d been apart. He’d moved to London, joined the Fellas podcast and gone to some pretty awesome countries. You’d signed a brand deal with one of your favourite brands, moved back out of your parents house to a little cottage and somehow managed to DIY an entire cat tree for Buttons to mess about in.

“You gotta bring that cat tree to London with you then so I can see it for myself.” Alfie hummed, fingers tracing along your shoulders.

“Why would I bring it to London?” You frowned, tilting your head up.

“When you move into my apartment.”

You scoffed out laughter, and then realised he didn’t have his default, flirtatious smirk, but more of a sincere smile.

“You’re serious?” You tilted your head.

“If you want to. Got plenty of room for you and Buttons. Besides, I miss my little yute.” He shrugged.

You chuckled at that, “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“No, you will.” Alfie grinned, wrapping his other arm around you to pull you flush on top of him.

You laughed loudly, arms coming around his neck as he smothered your face with kisses.

“Alf!”

“Am I convincing you?” He laughed with you.

“No, you’re deterring me!” You joked, flapping your hands at his chest.

It was then that you saw Alhan sneaking into the bedrooms, coming to frozen standstill once he’d seen that you and Alfie occupied the room already.

“Y’alright, bro?” Alfie laughed, finding humour in the way his friend had just stopped.

“Uhhh, yeah. All good.” Alhan nodded, “What you two doin’? Shaggin’?”

“Ugh.” You groaned, rolling your eyes and pushing up off the bed, “Can’t even spend a moment alone without someone thinking we’re getting up to no good.”

“Bye, Reader.” Alhan chimed giddily as you walked into the living room.

A few minutes passed of mindless chatter before the TV alerted with a notification.

‘Reader, please go to the Temptation Room’

“Oh, no!” You whined miserably, standing from the couch with laboured movement.

“You’ve got this girl, stay strong.” Chloe clapped.

“Don’t take it!” Marlon exclaimed.

“You got your temptation?!” Alfie’s face lit up as he walked in with Alhan, seeing the commotion, “Fuckin’ hell, get in there, girl.”

“I don’t want it!” You pretended to cry, “Please can someone else go!”

“Reader. Temptation room. Now.” Ethan’s voice called through the speakers, making everyone laugh.

“Alright, sorry dad.” You scoffed, reluctantly shuffling out of the room and down the hall.

As you stood outside of the Temptation Room, you waged a mental war with yourself, reminding your own conscience that you were not to take any temptation, regardless of what it is.

“Okay.” You huffed, pushing the door open and it closed behind you as you became a still statue. “No.”

A soft ‘meow’ came from the other end of the room.

In his little cage, was Buttons.

His paws were pressed against the bars, standing on his hind legs as his ears perked up, nose twitched and pupils dilated. She meowed at you again, recognising you by scent and sight.

“Oh, no, I can’t. I need to leave.” You whimpered, turning your back on him and standing with your forehead pressed to the door.

“Reader, please read the cards on the plinth.”

You inhaled sharply, walking backwards to the plinth so you didn’t have to look at your baby. You picked up the card, reading it out loud:

“‘Reader, for £30,000 you can spend 30 minutes in here with Buttons, feeding him his favourite treats and cuddling him’— Were the extra details necessary?!” You groaned, “‘To confirm your temptation, you can go up to Buttons and unlock his cage. If you touch him through the bars of the cage, you will cost the group £10,000’— You guys are horrible.”

You heard his meow again, before the sound of his claws scratching at the cage bars echoed throughout the room.

“No, stop! I decline. I decline.”

“Reader, you must spend at least five minutes in the room before leaving.” Ethan’s voice came through the speakers again.

“No.” You whined, coming to crouch down on your knees with your back to the plinth, “Ignore me, Buttons. Mummy isn’t here right now.”

He only meowed at the sound of your voice.

You couldn’t help yourself.

You looked back over your shoulder at the little tabby cat, taking in the sight of him.

It had only been five days, but it felt like an eternity.

He was your baby boy, and to spend so much time away from him without his purring against your chest was really taking a toll on you.

Perhaps that’s why you’d been such an emotional wreck this entire experience.

Speaking of his purring …

“No! Buttons, stop, I’m gonna cry.” You felt tears welling in your eyes as his rumbled purrs filled the room from the sight of you.

He mewed, trying to shove his head through the gap in the wire bars to get to you.

That’s when the waterworks started.

You let out a soft cry as tears began streaming down your face, absolutely torn apart by the way he was so desperate to reach you.

“Reader, you can leave.”

You were hesitant now, slowly standing and observing as his eyes tracked your movements, mewing and his whiskers twitched.

“I’m so sorry.” You sniffled, waving bye to him as you walked out of the room.

To add salt to the already deep wound, you heard him meow one last time before you closed the door.

You had to take a minute outside, leaning with your shoulder to the wall and hands over your face as you cried softly, allowing your palms to soak up your tears.

You sniffed harshly, sucking it all back up, with a big huff and dabbing at your cheeks with your fingers, making your way back to the living room.

“Reader’s back!” Chian exclaimed as everyone gathered on the couch to listen to you.

God, it felt ten times worse having to stand in front of everyone and explain that you’d abandoned your baby in that room on his own.

“Um, I didn’t take it.” You started, the sleeves of your hoodie pulled down over your hands.

You received a round of applause for that and a few encouraging ‘whoops’ from Indiyah.

“Uh …” You suckled on the inside of your cheek, turning your head away as your shoulders began jolting with the little cries in your body.

A few people must’ve assumed that you were laughing, maybe from having received a stupid temptation, because a soft round of laughter came from them.

“No, guys, I think she’s crying.” Chian whispered.

“Oi,” Alfie was up immediately, standing in front of you, “Oi, talk to us. What was it?”

“Are you crying?!” Indiyah exclaimed from shock, rushing over to you as well, “What’s wrong?”

“Alhan, if you’re gonna laugh, at least go and get her some tissues.” Ben hit his friend on the arm playfully.

The man that was giggling uncontrollably took the advice and saw himself out.

“He just kept meowing at me.” You whimpered, words blending together in the short frame between your last and next sob.

“What? What does that even mean?” Marlon frowned.

“Was it Buttons?” Alfie whispered, and you nodded, falling into another fit of cries at the memory of your little boy's face. “Oh, darlin’.”

“They put him in the room with me.” You hiccuped, “30 grand for 30 minutes but I said no. He just kept trying to get to me, it made it so much worse.”

“Your cat?” Ben asked for clarity, and you nodded.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Indiyah said, rubbing your arm, “At least you got to see him, and saw that he was okay, yeah? Just means when you get the reunion it’ll be even better.”

“They didn’t have to put him in the room.” You sniffled, wiping your cheeks. “I feel silly crying over it. It’s a fucking cat but…”

“No, it’s fine. People without cats don’t understand. They’re like children to us.”

“D’you wanna sit alone for a bit?” Alfie asked, kissing the top of your head.

You shook your head, frowning, “I think I’m just gonna go and see the wellness team. I feel like I’ve cried a lot in here. I just need to sit and cry for a bit.”

“Should I come with?”

“No, it’s okay.”

And with that, you exited the room, making your way off-set and away from the cameras and towards wellness.

“I am— I’m not actively worrying about her, like I know if she needs to leave, she’ll just say, but … she has cried a lot. No one better be hating on her when we get out and see the outside. Like, she’s just an emotional person.”

When you came back from your sobbing session, you felt a whole let better, like a massive weight had been lifted off of your shoulders and flung out of sight. But what you came back to was a house full of tension.

You felt it the moment you walked into the bedrooms and saw everyone getting ready for bed in little cliques.

“Hey, babe. You feeling better?” Indiyah smiled as you joined her at the makeup table to remove everything.

“Yeah. Feels so much lighter now.” You grinned, “What happened in here?”

“Basically, Alfie revealed that you and him saw some snakey behaviour. Then told us all that it was Chian and Expressions plotting against me and you, so I asked her about it and she basically just said ‘I was only going off of vibes and how I felt in here’.”

“Oh, shit.”

You jumped slightly as Alfie planted his hands on your shoulders.

“Why are you causing mayhem?” You asked, looking up at him.

“What? How am I?” He frowned.

“Um, telling everyone’s business without me being here. You probably made it sound a whole lot worse than it was.” You smiled in amusement.

“Nah, nah, I did, like, I did explain the context and stuff.”

“He did.” Indiyah backed him up as Marlon walked around the corner.

“You good?” He asked, and you responded with a nod.

“The tension here is awful.” You scoffed out laughter.

“That’s what I feel like! Like, I didn’t— right, obviously I knew confronting her would do something, but, like, just own up to it, apologise and we can move on. I dunno why it feels so weird in here.” Indiyah shrugged, wrapping her hair up into her bonnet.

“Also, the money dropped to 412 grand.” Marlon dropped.

“Bro, there’s gonna be nothing left by the finale, might as well spend it all in one go.” You scoffed.

The lights began to dim, signalling a last warning for everyone to get into bed.

With a stretching groan, you stood, and Alfie patted your bottom.

“Sleeping by yourself tonight?”

“They’re only single beds. I won’t fit in yours.” You pouted, resting your chin on his chest.

“Just lie on top of me.” He grinned, dragging you over to his bed.

He laid down, fixing his eye mask at his forehead and pulled you on top of him. He situated the duvet at your shoulders, letting you both snuggle into each other's warmth.

“I don’t wanna hear any fucking kissing or bed creaking.” Alhan threatened from his space two beds down.

Everyone fell into cacophonous laughter.

“I’ll go extra hard just for you, bro.” Alfie joked.

“At least let me join then.”

“Ew!” You cackled before the lights shut off completely, sending the room into darkness.

You and Alfie stood true to your words, not getting handsy with each other apart from sharing a few long, lazy kisses before sleeping.

Your slumber was heavy and undisturbed, meaning you were feeling well-refreshed but reluctant to get out of bed in the morning.

You whined as Alfie shifted, moving you from his chest and onto the mattress.

“Dead arm.” He grunted, clutching his arm with the other hand and trying to shake it awake.

Once he’d got feeling back in his arm, he flopped back down, slinging a leg over yours, making you huff and nudge him away.

“You’re in my bed!” He scoffed.

“Shh.”

Chloe laughed at you, finally peeling back her own covers and getting ready.

You felt something brush your backside.

“Alfie, move your hand.” You grumbled, coming to terms with the fact that you were most definitely not going to get another few minutes with your eyes shut.

“My hand’s not on you.” He frowned.

You peered over your shoulder, looking back and down.

“Alf!” You huffed, the tent in his boxers that was caressing your backside caused you to sit up immediately.

“Wh— I can’t help it!” He threw his arms up, adjusting the duvet so it was covering his lap and awkward situation.

You grumbled something distasteful under your breath, heading to the bathrooms to get a quick, cold shower and get ready for the day.

The morning was leisurely, with no spontaneous alerts from the TV apart for breakfast, you were all just lounging around in your own company.

You, Ben, Indiyah and Chloe were flopped back on the beds, talking mindlessly as the boy's grunts echoed through the halls.

“Are they in the shower?” Chloe asked.

“No, they’re sparring.” You rolled your eyes at the boisterous antics.

“Who?”

“Alfie and Marlon.”

“Are they shirtless?”

“Indiyah!” You cackled loudly, but as it died down, you shared a cheeky smirk with her.

You skipped off arm in arm, finding the two boys going round in circles in nothing but their purple tracksuit bottoms.

They were both light on their feet, arms up as a guard.

“Oh, shit. We’ve got an audience.” Alfie pumped his arm diagonally upwards.

“Alf, please don’t give me the ick with this. Win, or don’t come home.”

“Fuckin’ hell, girl.” He scoffed, sulking with a deflated ego, “Don’t you love me anyway? Can’t believe this is what being in love feels like.” He clutched his heart dramatically.

Your cheeks went red at the words.

Whilst, yes, you did love him, and quite frankly, you hadn’t stopped even after all those months ago. But, still, it wasn’t something you’d brought back up again in a serious manner. Sure, you could say ‘I love you’ to each other in passing and during emotionally heated moments, but to say ‘I’m in love with you’ again? That was a whole other ballpark and level of commitment you’d had to apply.

Indiyah was your saviour, “She runs a strict programme.”

“Fuckin’ don’t I know it?” Alfie scoffed, continuing to bounce lightly in a circle with Marlon.

Chloe and Ben had also formed a small semi-circle with you, as the sound of Alhan’s wails and grunts came from the cold shower.

Alfie threw a few fake punches, adding in stupid sound effects that made you want to vomit at his feet.

“Ick.” You chimed, waving a hand up and walking away from him.

“Oi! Don’t be rude! I took my shirt off for you!” Alfie exclaimed.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” You sang, slipping into the living room.

About another hour went by of everyone goofing off with each other, sharing personal anecdotes from childhood or showing off their secret party tricks.

Though you missed everyone that was gone, there was something more homely about their only being a few of you left. You felt like the bond was closer and stronger, but maybe that just meant that voting people off would feel worse.

Speaking of …

Harry came through the double doors holding a large black box, greeting you all before resting it on the dining table and making his way over to stand before you all for his announcement.

“This is the Box of Whispers. In a minute, I’m gonna go and place it on a plinth in the temptation room. Over the next two hours, anyone can go to the plinth and write a name down on a cue card, put it in the box to put that person up for elimination. Whether you want to nominate someone, is up to you.”

You raised a tentative hand, “So, we don’t have to vote?”

“No. However, if just one person is nominated, they’re eliminated. If two or more people are nominated, then it will go to a vote. But, if no one gets nominated, then you’re all up for elimination. Enjoy.”

“Well, fuck.” Chian muttered as Harry took the box and left to go and leave it in the temptation room as said.

“Jeez.” Ben’s eyebrows shot up.

“Where’s the pen?” Alhan said, tone deadpanned but it was a tone you’d grown to know meant he was serious.

“Wind-up.” You scoffed, slapping his leg.

“Is anyone gonna vote in here?” Chloe asked, addressing the elephant in the room.

“Yep.” Alhan nodded.

“You’re too honest, you, aren’t ya?”

“Yeah.” He hummed, rising from his seat and making his way out, muttering a “Chian.” before disappearing.

“Alhan, that’s not nice!” You shouted at him over the walls.

“Shush!”

“He’s such a twat.” Alfie cackled, folding into Marlon as they both laughed.

You felt awful for Chian.

Sure, what she did to you and Indiyah wasn’t the nicest, and she did have a plan to get you out of the house, but that didn’t mean she deserved to feel isolated in the house. The whole point of the game was that it was every man for themselves, and she was doing just that. Playing the game.

But so was Alhan.

Still, he didn’t need to be rude about it.

You let out a hum, perking up and leaving the sofa.

“Are you voting?” Alfie asked, shocked that you were getting up in front of everyone.

“Yep.” You hummed.

“Who for?”

“You.” You shrugged before leaving.

“Reader?!” He exclaimed, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Only joking, I’m going for a piss.”

Over the next two hours, not much happened. The threat of an elimination was looming over you, causing you to second guess every little word and action of the others.

Marlon came to you whilst you were mid-cuddle on the couch with Alfie, explaining the situation where Ben and himself had voted for each other for the sole purpose of not wanting Chian to feel alone in the vote.

You thought that was a really sweet thing for them to do.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, Ethan popped his head around the corner carrying the large black box that was holding the answer everyone was dreading.

You sat up, removing your head from Alfie’s head with a huff as Indiyah smiled, taking a seat to the other side of you.

“No more communicating in the living room.” Ethan announced, “You guys have been playing ‘Box of Whispers’ this morning. You have had the ability to cast your vote and put it in this box. It is now time to reveal who has been nominated for elimination.”

Your leg bounced violently whilst your teeth clicked around your acrylic nail, biting it.

As far as you knew, everyone had been open and honest about whether or not they had cast a vote and who they were doing it for.

But what if someone was lying?

What if someone had voted for you?

What if your name was in the box?

What if you were getting sent home again?

Ethan unlocked the hatch, swinging the lid of the box open and picking up the cue cards inside.

Unbeknownst to you, Alfie was side-eyeing the excessive movement of your leg, debating whether or not to do something. A hand on your thigh in a roomful of people was far too obvious and awkward.

He settled with an arm behind you, subtly wrapped around your waist.

It didn’t stop your leg from bouncing, but it definitely slowed it.

“When I read your names out, please come and stand next to me.” Ethan cleared his throat. “Chian, Alhan, Marlon, Ben … The rest of you will each go down to Room 19, one by one, to choose who you want to be eliminated.”

Indiyah was first.

You were last.

“I don’t think this is a ‘who you want to go home’ thing, because no one wants anyone to leave, but … For the sake of this vote, I am going to go with Chian. Just purely based on what me and Alf saw on the cameras with her plotting with Ex against me and Indiyah, so … yeah.”

In the end, your vote did count, as Chian was sadly sent home.

There was something a little weird about hugging her goodbye despite being a contributing factor to the reason she was leaving, but it was better than straight up ignoring her.

Only a few hours of chatter and sneaky kisses passed by before that stupidly loud alarm began blaring through the speakers.

You and Alfie groaned at the knowledge of another challenge awaiting.

“You two, quit shagging. Challenge time.” Alhan snapped his fingers.

You tapped his chest, hauling yourself out of bed and following your fellow Insiders to the room.

In the Challenge Arena was a huge white wall with seven holes large enough for people to stand in, labelled 1-7. Josh and Ethan were stood to the side of it.

“Everyone please pick a number.”

You stood in front of the number 6, Alfie next to you at 7.

“Welcome to your next challenge, ‘Own It’.”

“Today, we have got a surprise for you, in the form of 600 litres of gunge.”

Your face screwed up, “What even is that?”

“Slime.” Ethan told you.

“Oh, ew!”

You were all given a run down of the challenge, where secrets would be revealed. If someone guessed incorrectly, they were to be slimed and lose £10,000 from the prize fund. If they guessed correctly, the culprit would be slimed and money would be saved.

This was going to be a very messy, and maybe expensive, challenge. You were hoping to stay as dry as possible.

The girls and yourself were all handed hair covers by production, so you wasted no time in protecting your precious strands.

You slid the goggles over your eyes, already knowing you looked like an absolute fool.

“First up, is AB.”

“Fuck-eth me-eth.” You heard him grumble, making you giggle.

“Which of your current fellow Insiders hasn’t been 100% honest with you?” Ethan proposed the question.

“About what?”

“That’s it. That’s the question.”

“Oh, fucking hell.” He groaned, “I feel like maybe Alhan? He lies a lot about little things, so it might be him on accident. Or … or is it one of the girls? Uhhh … Who have I…? Not Reader.” He was verbalising his whole thought process, “No, y’know what, I’m gonna go with Alhan. It was probably something stupid.”

“I can reveal, that the correct answer is …” Ethan dragged out the suspension, “Reader.”

“What?! Oh, fuck!” Alfie yelled as slime was dropped all over him.

You heard it splatter on the walls and floor.

“The fuck you been lyin’ about, girl?” He groaned.

You all stepped out of your holes to laugh at Alfie’s misfortune.

“I don’t know! What did I lie about? I haven’t lied!” You laughed, honestly in a state of confusion and shock.

When everyone returned to their holes, you were presented with the next question.

“Reader, which Insider fabricated a lie that the house won back money due to one of their actions?” Ethan asked.

“Alhan.” You said immediately, still bringing your hands up to cover your head in case your gut and memory was wrong, “About making Expressions tell the truth about his temptation. Right? It was Alhan?”

Thankfully, you were right, and Ethan’s cackles sounded around the room as the two presenters got a perfect view of the man having slime dropped all over him.

The challenge continued on, all the way into round two which was your personal least favourite.

One of you was sent into Room 19 to order the others regarding a prompt. It was up to everyone else to guess that order correctly. It was safe to say your shirt was soaking by the time it was your turn.

“I’m so grossed out right now! It’s not even the pink one, it’s green. You could’ve at least given me pink. Anyway, ‘Reader, order the Insiders based on who you trust most to least. Ooo okay! I’m gonna put Indiyah first because she’s my girl, and then … hm, and then Alfie, duh. Ben third. Marlon fourth … yep. Chloe fifth because I haven’t spoken to her too much but I know she’s always got the girls’ back, and Alhan fifth because he’s Alhan.”

When you returned to the room, you cringed at the order they’d put themselves in.

Alfie, Indiyah, Chloe, Marlon, Ben, Alhan.

They’d gotten one right.

Shit.

“Control your face please, Reader.” Josh said.

“Sorry.”

“Shit, we’ve fucked up.” Alfie groaned.

Everyone except Alhan ended up getting slimed, making him cheer and laugh loudly.

“What the fuck was your order?!” Indiyah shouted, wiping the slime off of her neck.

“You, Alfie, Ben, Marlon, Chloe and Alhan. Guys!” You huffed, dramatically throwing your head back and doing a 360 spin on your heels.

“Why wouldn’t you put your boyfriend first?!” Marlon scoffed.

“He’s not even my boyfriend! And I did it because me and Indiyah have been,” You crossed your pointer and middle fingers, “Since day one!”

The challenge came to an end after a few more questions and you were dreading seeing the prize fund after this.

The entire evening was spent showering and cleaning yourselves. Still, you felt like there was an awful sticky residue on the back of your neck no matter how much body wash you used.

You shivered as your feet hit the cold floor and you pattered back to the bedrooms.

You changed quickly, wanting to be in the warmth of your tracksuit immediately.

While you were going through the process of drying your hair, the TV chimed and everyone began chanting ‘AB’.

“Oi, girl, I’ve got my temptation, wish me luck!” He came into the bedrooms all giddy, rubbing his hands together.

“You’re not going to war.” You laughed, putting the blowdryer down.

“With the way you acted around your temptation I might be.”

You scoffed out laughter, flipping him off playfully.

“Okay, seriously though. Be sensible. Be smart. If I can go without seeing Buttons, you can go without seeing Pablo or Chica.”

“I will, I will.”

And with that, he was gone.

The house resumed to that oddly quiet feeling it had from the time he left for the day.

Alfie had been gone for a very long while, leaving you to come to the conclusion that he had in fact taken his temptation and was now reaping the benefits of it.

You and Indiyah sat on the couch, Alhan and Marlon on the L of the seat as you all spoke between yourselves, occasionally complaining about the challenge and how much money you lost, plus you all still felt all grimy.

“Genuinely, if you win, what will you do with the money?” Marlon asked.

“Buy stuff for my cat.” You grinned, “Maybe put some money to a London apartment.”

“You don’t live in London?” He tilted his head, eyes widening slightly in shock.

“No, I still live up North and stuff. Just never had a reason to move down.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s really not all that.” Alhan added, “You’re probably better off where you are.”

That caused you all to laugh.

It was then that Alfie came bursting through the doors, arms at his side and jaw clenched tightly.

“Did you take it? I know you took it.” Alhan laughed.

You frowned at his annoyed expression, “What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, I took it.” Alfie nodded sharply before looking you dead in the eyes,

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