TW: mentions of car wreck (nothing graphic), mentions of being in the hospital for multiple days
The night of the accident plays over and over in your head like a broken film reel, but every time you try to remember the exact moment of impact, it blurs—shards of glass, the shriek of tires, your friend’s panicked gasp, then nothing but a ringing silence.
When you wake up in the hospital, the world feels foreign. The sterile smell, the white ceiling tiles, the steady beep of the monitor tethering you to reality. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache, but worse than the pain is the terror—the overwhelming, suffocating fear that you’re not safe, that if you close your eyes you won’t wake up again.
He’s sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair pulled right up against your bed, his head tipped forward, his dark hair falling into his eyes. His hand is wrapped tightly around yours, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear. When you stir, his eyes fly open immediately, full of relief and exhaustion all at once.
“Babe,” he breathes out, his thumb brushing your knuckles carefully. “God, I was so scared. You—you don’t even know.”
You can barely speak, your throat dry and scratchy, but the only words you can push out are, “Don’t leave me.”
Chris looks at you, startled, and his expression softens in an instant. He shifts his chair even closer, so close his knees press against the side of the bed. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
From that moment on, you cling to him. Every time a nurse walks in, you tighten your grip on his hand. If he even suggests stepping out to grab food or coffee, your chest tightens with panic, and your eyes sting with tears. The idea of being without him, even for a few minutes, feels unbearable.
Chris notices. He doesn’t tease you for it, doesn’t roll his eyes—he just stays. He reads to you when the nights feel too long, holds you carefully when you cry because you’re remembering the screech of tires, strokes your hair when you wake up from nightmares in a cold sweat.
But there are moments when he catches you staring at him, your wide eyes almost frantic, and his heart breaks a little. He knows you’re hurting deeper than the physical injuries. One night, when the rain patters against the hospital window and the world feels a little quieter, he leans closer and whispers, “You don’t have to be scared. I’ve got you. No matter what happened, no matter how long it takes—you’re safe with me.”
Your lips tremble, and you press your forehead against his hand. “Promise?”
He smiles softly, though his own eyes glisten. “Promise. You’re stuck with me forever now.”
From that night on, your attachment only deepens. Chris doesn’t just become your boyfriend—he becomes your anchor, the one thing keeping you grounded when the trauma threatens to pull you under. And though part of him aches to see how fragile you feel, another part vows silently that he’ll carry that weight for as long as it takes.
Because if almost losing you taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t ever want to imagine a world where he’s not by your side.
The first few days in the hospital feel endless—hours blurred together by the steady beep of the monitor, the shuffle of nurses, and Chris never once letting go of your hand. He barely leaves your side, only shifting in his chair or climbing onto the edge of the bed when you beg him not to move too far. You’ve been clinging to him since the second you woke up, terrified that if he slips away, the world will crash in around you again.
It’s late in the morning when the door opens and Matt and Nick walk in. Their faces are tight with worry, but soften when they see you awake, leaning against Chris’s shoulder with his arm wrapped securely around you.
“Hey,” Nick says gently, setting down a gift bag by the foot of your bed. “You scared the hell out of us.”
Matt tries to smile, his voice low. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”
You peek at them for a moment, but the second their eyes meet yours, your chest tightens and you instantly bury your face into Chris’s side. Your fingers fist in the fabric of his hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only safe thing in the room.
Chris strokes your arm, leaning down so only you can hear him. “It’s just Matt and Nick, baby. You’re safe. I promise.”
But you shake your head against him, refusing to lift your face. The sound of their voices feels too loud, the room too bright. Your body is trembling, and Chris tightens his hold on you, shielding you from view. He looks up at his brothers, eyes heavy with both apology and protectiveness.
“She’s… having a hard time,” Chris explains softly. “She doesn’t want me to let go.”
Nick nods, his expression full of empathy. “That’s okay. We don’t need her to do anything. We just wanted to see you guys.”
Matt moves closer to the chair opposite Chris, careful not to make any sudden movements. “We’ll sit for a while. No pressure.”
You hear their voices, but you don’t look. Instead, you press yourself deeper into Chris’s side, gripping his arm so tightly your knuckles are white. Every time his fingers twitch like he might move, you flinch and whisper, almost desperately, “Don’t.”
Chris immediately stills, his other hand coming up to rub your back soothingly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice so steady it almost lulls you into calm.
The visit stays quiet after that. Matt and Nick talk in low voices about little things—how they’ve been taking care of the house, how much they miss having you around, how they brought your favorite snacks for when you’re feeling stronger. Chris chimes in when he can, his arm still locked around you, his thumb brushing over your shoulder every few seconds like a grounding tether.
Eventually, Nick gets up to leave the gift bag within reach. He glances at Chris. “We’ll head out soon, give you both some quiet. But if either of you need anything, you just call us. Okay?”
Chris nods, gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks. Really.”
As they get up to go, you tighten your hold on Chris again, making a small, muffled noise into his side. He bends his head, whispering into your hair. “They’re leaving, it’s okay. It’s just me now.”
Only when the door clicks shut do you let out a shaky breath, your body slowly unclenching. Chris shifts so he can look down at you, brushing hair gently from your face.
“You don’t have to face anyone until you’re ready,” he murmurs. “If all you want is me right now, then that’s what you’ll get. Every second, every hour—I’ll be here.”
Your lips tremble as you whisper, “Promise?”
He kisses your temple softly, his arm still firm around you. “Promise. I’m not letting go until you tell me to.”
And in that quiet, with the world shut out beyond the hospital walls, you let yourself believe him.
The first night back home feels heavier than either of you expected. The hospital had been overwhelming, but it was at least predictable—white walls, nurses checking in, Chris never more than a breath away. The house you share with Matt and Nick should’ve felt safe, comforting, familiar. Instead, every shadow feels sharp, every sound makes your stomach twist, and the only thing that grounds you is Chris.
He doesn’t protest when you clutch his hand so tightly your fingers ache. He doesn’t pull away when you refuse to walk on your own, your body pressed against his side as he guides you through the front door. Matt and Nick hover behind you both, carrying in your overnight bag and the flowers people had dropped off at the hospital, but they exchange quiet looks that say everything: she’s not ready.
Chris helps you down the basement stairs slowly, murmuring reassurances with every step. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. One more step. You’re safe. Just a little further.” When you finally reach his room, you collapse onto his bed without letting go of him. His arm stays wrapped around you as you curl into his side, as if the entire world could fall apart outside those four walls and you wouldn’t even notice as long as he stayed there.
Hours pass like that. He strokes your hair, thumbs scrolling absentmindedly through his phone with one hand while the other keeps you anchored against him. You don’t sleep much, too afraid of what you’ll see when your eyes close, so instead you just hold onto him, your breathing syncing with his.
It’s when he shifts slightly that you tighten your grip, your voice breaking through the silence. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says instantly, kissing the top of your head. Then, gently, he adds, “I was just gonna grab some water. Do you want me to?”
Your head shakes against his chest. “No. Stay.”
That becomes the rhythm of your days at home. Every time he needs to do something—even something as small as standing up to plug in his phone—he checks with you first.
“Can I run upstairs and grab us food? I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. I’ll text Nick to bring it down.”
“Can I go shower? You can sit right outside the door if that feels better.”
“…Can I sit in here while you do?”
“If that’s what makes you feel safe, baby.”
Sometimes, you don’t even need to answer—he can see it in the way your eyes widen, in the way your body stiffens, and he stays without question. He learns to ask gently, to reassure you before the panic can set in.
Matt and Nick notice the way you follow Chris everywhere in the house, your hand hooked into his sleeve, your steps matching his down the hall. They don’t tease or comment; instead, they pick up the slack. They’ll grab groceries, bring meals to the basement, keep the house quiet so you and Chris can have your cocoon of safety.
One night, as you’re curled into his chest while a movie plays quietly in the background, Chris murmurs against your hair, “I don’t mind, you know. You holding onto me like this. If this is what you need right now, then that’s what I’m gonna give you.”
You look up at him, eyes watery. “But I’m… I’m keeping you from everything.”
He shakes his head, pulling you closer. “No, baby. You’re reminding me what really matters. The rest can wait. You come first. Always.”
And even though the panic still lingers, even though you can’t imagine letting him out of your sight, his words chip away at the fear, piece by piece. Because as long as Chris keeps asking, keeps waiting for your permission before he moves, you know he’ll never walk away when you need him most.
Getting Better (otherwise)
The weeks after the accident stretch into something unrecognizable. Physically, you’re healing—the bruises are fading, the stitches have dissolved, and the ache in your ribs is dull instead of sharp. You can walk through the house without needing Chris’s arm to hold you steady, you can brush your own hair, even sit through dinner upstairs with Matt and Nick. To anyone else, you look like you’re getting better.
But Chris can see the truth.
He notices the way your eyes dart to the windows when cars drive by, the way you freeze when someone slams a door upstairs. He sees how you flinch if he takes too long in the shower, how you count the seconds under your breath until he comes back into the room. Even when your body is strong enough to move freely, you’re still tethered to him by fear—and if he steps too far away, that tether pulls so hard it nearly breaks you.
One night, after you’ve spent the day curled against him in the basement while he half-watched TV and half-soothed you, he tries gently, “You’re doing really well, you know. You’re stronger than you think.”
You don’t look at him. Your fingers twist in the hem of his hoodie, knuckles pale. “I’m not. I can’t… I can’t do anything without you.”
His chest tightens. He cups your face carefully, making you look at him. “That’s not true. You’ve been walking on your own, helping yourself get dressed, even coming upstairs. That’s huge.”
“But I feel worse,” you whisper, tears welling up in your eyes. “My body’s fine, but my head—my head won’t stop. I see it all the time. The crash. The glass. The noise. And the second you’re not here, I feel like it’s going to happen again. Like if I let go of you, I’ll lose everything.”
Chris pulls you into him, holding your trembling body against his chest. His voice is steady, but you can feel the ache behind it. “You’re not going to lose me. I know your brain is telling you all these scary things, but that’s trauma talking. It doesn’t mean it’s real. You’re safe now. I’m right here.”
And he is. Every day. He stays patient when you can’t sleep without your hand tangled in his. He stays calm when you panic after a nightmare, whispering over and over that it’s not happening again, that you’re safe, that he’s got you. He asks before he does anything, the habit still alive: Can I go grab water? Can I use the bathroom? Can I run upstairs real quick? And when you beg him not to, he doesn’t argue—he just stays.
But he also starts finding little ways to help you breathe again. He suggests taking short walks in the backyard together, your hand tucked firmly into his pocket. He encourages you to sit at the kitchen table with Matt and Nick for five minutes at a time, then ten. He puts on soft music at night instead of the TV so your brain has something calmer to cling to.
Still, he sees the shadows under your eyes, the way you fold into him like he’s the only thing holding you together. One evening, as you curl up in his lap, your face pressed into his chest, he murmurs, “I think… maybe talking to someone could help. A therapist. Just so you’re not carrying all this by yourself.”
You stiffen immediately. “No. I just need you.”
He strokes your back gently, sighing against your hair. “You do have me. Always. But I can’t take the crash out of your head, no matter how much I want to. Talking about it might help you heal in ways I can’t fix.”
You’re quiet for a long time, your grip on him tightening as though he might vanish if you let go. Finally, your voice comes out small, broken. “What if they don’t understand? What if they don’t believe me?”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Chris promises, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll sit there the whole time. I’ll make sure they understand. You’ll never have to do it alone.”
Your body sags against him, overwhelmed but comforted by his certainty. The idea terrifies you, but so does the thought of staying trapped in your own mind forever. And as long as Chris is holding on, as long as he’s asking and waiting and promising, you know you’ll find the strength to try.
Because even if your body has healed, your mind is still fragile—and Chris is determined to carry you through both.
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