What Could've Been - Part Four 🐞❤️
@jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99 @cutedisneygirl
The medics moved fast, shouting codes and numbers I couldn’t process. Everything blurred — lights, blood, panic — and in that mess of motion, I realized something I hadn’t let myself admit.
Hell, I don’t know anything anymore.
All I knew was that I couldn’t lose anyone else. Not him. Not another person I cared about.
By the time we hit the hospital, Nathan was still alive — barely. The heart monitor beeped faint, irregular, desperate. They rushed him into surgery while I stood frozen, my fingers slick with his blood, my mind spinning.
I texted the team. My hands shook so badly I could hardly type.
“Blythe’s been stabbed. He’s in surgery.”
Tears slid down before I even realized they’d started.
Of course, the first to show up was Mark.
One look, and he pulled me into his arms — and I let him. For a moment. For one stupid, fragile heartbeat. Because no matter what happened between us, he’d always been my safe place.
But then I smelled her. Amber’s perfume.
Familiar. Expensive. Suffocating.
I stiffened, stepping back fast. His eyes widened. He knew I knew.
I cleared my throat, voice cracking. “The others are on their way.”
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “What happened?”
I shook my head, still seeing flashes of blood. “I-I don’t know. There was so much blood. He flatlined, Mark. He flatlined.”
He swore under his breath, dragging his hand through his hair. “Shit.”
I sank into the nearest chair, legs barely holding. My body felt detached — like it wasn’t mine anymore. “The doctors said they’ll try everything to save him,” I whispered. Then, softer, “He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to—”
The words caught, breaking apart. I couldn’t finish.
The others began arriving, voices low, faces grim. I couldn’t handle it — their pity, their questions, their noise. So I slipped out, down the sterile hallway, searching for somewhere to breathe.
The bathroom mirror hit me like a slap. The blood on my hands. The streaks on my shirt. The shaking that wouldn’t stop.
I turned on the tap, scrubbing until the water ran pink, then clear. But it didn’t help. The images came anyway — Nathan on that stretcher. The little boy I couldn’t save. The sound of the gunshot. Tom’s laugh.
They all blended together — blood and guilt and breath I couldn’t catch.
My chest tightened, vision tunneling. I clawed at my shirt, trying to pull in air that wouldn’t come. The walls tilted, my knees buckled—
and then everything went black.
When I came to, the first thing I saw were a pair of wide hazel eyes staring down at me. Oliveras. Her voice sounded distant, muffled, like it was coming through water.
“She’s passed out on the floor—get some help in here!”
I groaned, trying to sit up. “I’m fine, Oliveras.”
She snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah? You’re so fine you’re lying on a bathroom floor.”
I pushed myself up on shaky elbows. My head spun, but I forced a weak smile. “See? Fine.”
She sighed, slipping an arm around me, steadying me despite her sass. “I’m getting you a doctor.”
I shook my head quickly. “No. Please. I’m fine—just… exhausted.”
Exhausted, sure. But also terrified. Triggered. Drowned in flashbacks I can’t seem to claw out of.
Oliveras studied me for a long moment, her gaze sharp enough to cut. “Damn. You and Mark are both stubborn as hell.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, just as the door creaked open and Evan Shepherd appeared with a doctor in tow.
They got me off the floor and down the hall, settling me in one of those too-bright hospital rooms that smell like bleach and regret. The nurse checked my vitals, the doctor murmuring something about “severe panic response.”
I sat there, feet dangling off the bed, picking at the skin around my nails until they stung. I hated this — the weakness, the spotlight, the eyes.
“What the hell happened? Did you get hurt? What—what happened?” His voice came out sharp, panicked, almost protective.
I rolled my eyes, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I’m fine.”
He stepped closer, scowling. “Fine? Dammit, you—” He stopped mid-sentence, frustration melting into something softer. His hand reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You had me worried.”
I swallowed hard, grabbing his wrist, steady but quiet. “Mark… don’t.”
That tiny moment broke like glass when the door opened again.
“Hey!” she said, slightly breathless. “Blythe’s out of surgery.”
I blinked, the words barely sinking in. “Is he—?”
“He’s going to make it,” she said with a small smile. “The doctors said he’ll pull through. We can see him soon.”
Relief hit so fast it made me dizzy. My shoulders sagged. For the first time in hours, maybe days, the weight I’d been carrying lifted just a little.
Hours passed before we were finally allowed into Nathan’s room. He was sitting up like he hadn’t just almost died, which—don’t ask me why—made me a little angry. He kept saying he was fine, explaining how he’d used the latest evidence to strong-arm the Belurisian government. He’d been on his way to meet Astapov with intel on Volchek when he found Astapov dead in his car. Before he could react, Volchek stabbed him—but got scared off by headlights.
Everyone offered him well-wishes, relief written all over their faces, happy he was okay. I stayed at the back, silent, watching him like he might vanish. He tried to swing his legs out of the bed but the doctors stopped him. Eventually, he relented, saying he’d stay a while but that the team should go follow up leads. One by one, they left.
I was the last. I moved slowly toward the door, trying to keep my composure. But I couldn’t.
I spun around. “You know what? You act like you didn’t almost die.”
He looked at me, brow furrowed. “I didn’t.”
I stepped closer. “But you did.” Softer now. “Almost. You flatlined.”
I watched the realization flicker in those blue eyes.
“Oh,” he croaked. “I don’t remember much after I called it in.”
He paused, voice low, almost a whisper. “Apart from you… your presence. Your hand. Your words.”
I had to look away. I didn’t know what to say.
“Okay,” he murmured, reaching for my hand. “Don’t look away. Look at me.”
“Damn,” he cursed under his breath.
He chuckled, a little groggy. “Remember I’m still high on the meds, but… you’re beautiful.”
I giggled, a shaky sound. “Okay. Let’s blame the drugs.”
But the lightness cracked. The air shifted between us, our eyes darting from each other’s eyes… to each other’s lips.
I wasn’t sure if it had been minutes or hours, but suddenly he pulled me close. My thigh brushed against the frame of the bed. Breathless, he whispered, “I can’t… I…”
“What man broke your heart so much?” he asked.
I looked away. “I… Nathan… just…”
He cut me off. “Don’t say my name in that breathless tone.”
I met his eyes again. “You’re my boss, and you’re…”
“Older,” he finished my sentence.
“Yes,” I tried to sound unaffected. “And… you’re medicated.”
“I wasn’t this morning,” he croaked, voice rough, “when I held you through your flashback.”
I stepped back. “Stop it.”
He raised his hands in surrender, wincing. “I’m sorry… don’t ask me. In my twenty-two years working with people, you’ve got me tied in a knot, and I don’t know why.”
I shook my head. “Stop. Just—stop. You’re complicating things.”
He swung his legs over the bed, standing tall, towering over me. Pain laced his voice. “Look… you think I don’t know that?”
“Just… sit back down, please,” I urged, stepping closer.
Then he cupped my face. And kissed me.
Everything collided—hungry, passionate, soft, desperate. I moaned into him, standing on my tiptoes. His fingers tangled in the back of my neck, pulling me even closer, while my hands gripped his hospital gown like it was my lifeline.
When we finally broke apart, we were both panting, eyes wide. Silence fell between us, heavy and dizzying.
Without a word, I ran. Heart pounding, head spinning—what the hell did I just do?
