Ride or Die | Chapter Seven
pairing: rodeo/cowboy!joel miller x f!reader
chapter summary : There are five stages of grief and anger is showing its ugly face in the aftermath of your accident.
chapter warnings: to avoid spoilers, i'm not going to post very specific warnings for this chapter, but here are the basics: angst, fluff, trauma, violence, and switching POVs.
word count: 10.3k
a/n: as a reminder, chapters will be every other sunday-- alternating with heartlines !!
your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I secretly hope you like this story. 🤍
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Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune
Masterlist
ICU — The Next Morning
The sun was just beginning to rise behind the heavy clouds outside, painting the hospital windows in soft gray light. The whir and beep of machines filled the silence in the room.
Joel sat slouched in the corner, eyes heavy with fatigue, but still trained on your still figure lying in the hospital bed. He hadn’t moved much since the night before — not really. Not when the only thing that felt right anymore was staying close to you.
He heard the soft knock at the door before it creaked open.
"Good morning... just here to check a few things.” Dr. Patel said softly as he entered with a clipboard in hand and a nurse trailing behind him.
Joel straightened slightly, rubbing his face, trying to read their expressions before either of them spoke in regards to your condition.
The nurse gave him a soft smile — but it was the kind people used when they felt bad for you or the situation you were put into.
Dr. Patel lowered his voice as he turned toward the bed. “Let’s check her neuro signs.”
Joel stood slowly, stepping back near the wall as the doctor leaned over and began the exam. He watched as the doctor lifted your eyelids, shining a light in each one. No response. He gently tapped your sternum, trying to elicit any movement.
“Pupils are sluggish,” the nurse reported, noting it in the chart as she spoke. “Reflex response still minimal.”
“Glasgow Coma Scale remains at 6,” Dr. Patel said quietly. “Still no spontaneous eye opening. No verbal response. Withdrawal from pain only in the left arm.”
Joel’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know what half those words meant, but the weight behind them was clear.
“Respiratory effort?” the nurse questioned.
“None. Full ventilator dependency still.” Patel sighed, straightening. He turned his head slightly to the nurse and added in a lower voice, “ICP hasn’t come down like Callahan hoped. Edema’s still pressing against the left temporal lobe. We should prep for a repeat CT today.”
“Should we alert neurology?” she asked just as quietly.
“Just did,” he said, putting away his phone. “But we’re running out of options.”
Joel stepped forward slightly, voice hoarse. “What does that mean?”
Patel looked at him for a long moment. “It means… she’s not responding the way we hoped. The pressure on her brain isn’t decreasing. There are no signs of improved cognitive function yet.”
Joel swallowed hard, listening, trying to absorb everything. “So you’re saying she’s not—she’s not waking up?”
“I’m saying we’re at a critical point. Sometimes swelling like this resolves slowly… sometimes it doesn’t.” Patel took a breath. “We’re watching for signs of brainstem activity. But as of this morning, she’s still not initiating breaths on her own. That’s not what we want to see.”
Joel pressed a hand against the edge of the bed, gripping it to stay upright. “And her voice? Someone mentioned late last night she wouldn’t have her voice… said to ask you...” he asked, almost a whisper.
The nurse answered gently. “We noticed bruising on her larynx during initial intubation. ENT did a consult and confirmed trauma to the vocal cords. We won’t know the extent until she’s awake… but if she does wake up, there’s a possibility she won’t be able to speak immediately.”
Patel nodded, adding. “There’s scarring. If the cords were torn or the nerves damaged, it could be temporary aphonia… or worse. Again — we won’t know until we get her off the ventilator. That’s another reason we’re watching so closely.”
Joel stared at you — his chest tightening, rage and helplessness mixing like acid in his veins. That son of a bitch had taken so much. Nearly all of you. And now maybe even your voice — possibly your memory too?
The nurse gently touched Joel’s arm. “We’ll come back after the imaging is prepped to take her for that CT.”
The two quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind them.
He didn’t even realize Everly had come back in until her hand brushed his shoulder. “Joel?” she asked, voice low.
He turned, slow and dazed, like he was underwater.
She took one look at his face and frowned. “What’d they say?”
Joel looked at you. At the machines. At the way your chest rose with the help of a machine. At the bruises around your throat. He let out a breath. “Not good,” he said. “Swelling’s not goin’ down. She’s not breathin’ on her own. And her vocal cords might be—” His voice cracked. “She might not even be able to talk when she wakes up.”
Everly looked down at you, lips trembling. “Oh God…”
Joel turned away from her and rubbed the back of his neck, his mind racing.
The machines behind him hummed. Beeped. Breathed for you. A constant reminder that you couldn’t do it yourself. Not yet.
His stomach twisted — and his eyes were far away. Going somewhere darker, as the devil on his shoulder began whispering to him.
‘You should’ve been there.’
His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
‘You let her go. You knew it felt wrong, and you let her walk into that house - alone.’
And then it started to get lower, colder, curling into the back of his skull.
‘But you still have time. Time to fix it. Time to make it right.’
He tried to blink the thought away.
‘You know where he is. You’ve already driven past it…’
‘Come on… it’d be easy. In and out. Tommy would help.’
Joel’s jaw clenched, and then another voice — softer, slower — tried to reason.
‘Don’t. Don’t do it. Think about her. Think about what she’d want. About what you could lose…’
But then he looked at the bruises again. The feeding tube. The blood still crusted in your hair.
And the angel on his shoulder didn’t stand a chance as the devil pushed harder.
‘She didn’t ask for justice. But she deserves vengeance.’
‘Think about what he’s doing right now? Eating? Sleeping? Breathing free air? What while she’s here choking on a goddamn tube? Unable to breath on her own?’
His breath hitched, his teeth grinding together.
‘He hurt her. He choked her. He tried to kill her.’
‘Make him pay.’
He could feel his heart start to pound. The adrenaline, the rush of what it’d feel like starting to fuel him.
‘Make him pay for the bruises. For the fear in her eyes. For the blood on still in her scalp. For the words she might never be able to speak again.’
He shook his head, so the angel tried to reason:
‘What will you say if she wakes up and asks what you did? She’s asked you not to fall into his trap…’
But it was no use,
‘What will you say if she doesn’t wake up? What will you say you did? Nothing?’
A beat passed — then another.
And the angel finally tried, one last small and desperate plea.
‘This isn’t you, this isn’t what she’d want. You’re better than this.’
But Joel’s gaze lifted toward the ICU window. The faint outline of the machines and your body lying still beneath sterile sheets stared back at him — and the last piece of him snapped.
‘No. You were better. And look where it got you. Look where it got her.’
He looked at Everly as she sat on your bed, gently brushing your hair back, and it was like a switch was flicked.
“Hey uhm, I gotta go home,” he said. “Freshen up. Change. Call my folks. I told ‘em I’d keep ‘em updated…" he started gathering his things.
Everly turned to look at him and nodded, completely oblivious to the internal battle that just took place, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Yeah, of course… go. I’ve got her.”
Joel came over and leaned down, brushing a kiss to your knuckles, then to your forehead. His voice was a breath. “Keep fightin’, baby. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
He rose slowly, gave you one last look, and headed toward the door.
The second your ICU door sealed behind him, he felt the shift fully.
That thudding pressure in his chest—the one that had been clenching tighter since the moment he heard of what happened—turned sharp. Less grief now, more heat. His jaw ticked as he walked down the corridor, boots heavy, fists clenching at his sides.
He passed the elevator, didn’t even glance at it. He needed to move. Burn it off.
Every fluorescent bulb overhead seemed to buzz louder. Every passing nurse and echo of voices in the hallway grated against his nerves. The image of your bruised throat, the ventilator pumping your chest, the coldness of your sweet skin he just kissed poems into days ago, the way the doctor said “if” you wake up— it was like fire under his skin.
He reached the far end of the hallway and slammed his palm flat against the wall, breathing hard, shoulders shaking. The dull ache in his hand didn’t even register.
You couldn’t speak. You couldn't breathe on your own. And the bastard who did it? He was still out there. Still breathing, still free, and still living.
Joel's vision swam, red edging in at the corners.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with shaking fingers to see ‘10% Low Battery’, then behind it — your photo on the lock screen. Laughing. Glowing. Alive.
He stared at it like it might ground him, but it didn’t. Not this time.
He opened his contacts and found Tommy’s name, then pressed dial. It rang once before the line picked up.
“Joel? What’s wrong? It’s… fuck— its 4:30am…” Tommy answered, sleepy and concerned.
Joel didn’t even hesitate, “Meet me at the Rosewood Motel. Wear somethin' you don't care for.”
Then he hung up.
His grip on the phone was white-knuckled now. And behind the grief and panic, something darker was rising.
Something cold. Something ready. Something fueled with anger and regret of not doing it sooner.
The parking lot of the Rosewood Motel was washed in the early morning light. The neon sign above the front office buzzed faintly. It looked like the kind of place people disappeared in or went to disappear from somewhere else — no questions, no names, just cash at check-in and a back door to run through when things went bad.
Joel sat motionless in the driver’s seat of his dad’s truck, his eyes locked on the peeling door of room 217, the one that for the last couple days when driving by; kept all the restraint in the world to not drop in, pay a visit to — the one that Riley’s blue truck was parked nicely in front of.
The silence in the cab buzzed louder than the neon above. His jaw ached from clenching. His chest hurt from breathing.
Tommy’s headlights pulled up behind him, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. His door shut, and his heavy boots approached.
Joel didn’t move; he just kept staring at the number 217 as his mind ran over the ways he was going to take the air from his pathetic lungs.
Tommy opened the passenger door and slid in, glancing at his brother’s profile — tense, jaw wired tight, eyes locked forward like a bomb that hadn’t quite gone off yet.
“Want to tell me what we’re doin’ here at 5 am in the mornin'?” Tommy asked, voice low and slightly annoyed.
Joel’s fingers flexed once on the wheel before he spoke. “That day — the day she got blindsided by her dad and Riley showin’ up — I walked her out when things got tense.”
Tommy nodded, “Yeah, and?”
“We passed Riley’s truck.” His hand clenched tighter around the wheel. “I didn’t think much of it then. But on the dash, there was a paper. Scrawled notes. IOUs. Two names — Ten grand for the leader of Los Serpentines and nine grand for Eddie Mason.”
He swallowed, voice turning hard. “And there was a pen clipped to it. Rosewood Motel. Logo stamped clear as day.” he nodded to the motel in front of them.
Tommy’s brows pulled together. “He’s stayin’ here?”
Joel gave a single, tight nod. “See that?” He nodded to his truck.
“He hasn’t left town, and didn’t like what Judd said he did before she went there yesterday. They lied to everyone. And then she walked into that house… where that son of a bitch waited for her.”
Tommy sat back, piecing it together. “So we’re here to… what, Joel?”
“I can’t… sit there anymore, Tommy. I can’t watch her hooked up to machines, praying she wakes up, knowing he did that to her and he’s just…” He trailed off, knuckles going white again. “He’s just livin’.”
Tommy sighed softly, “Joel, you know we can’t—”
He froze as Joel slammed his hand against the steering wheel. The sound cracked through the cab like a gunshot.
“He almost killed her!” Joel’s voice broke.
His breath came faster, more ragged now. The fire behind his eyes trembled as tears finally broke past the edges.
“I sat next to her all night last night. I just sat there… held her hand and prayed to God or whatever is up there.... begged them to wake her up.”
His jaw jutted, and tears fell down his cheeks. “She can’t even breathe on her own. I can’t count the times I told her that I loved her over and over in the last 12 hours, and she can’t even hear me…” His voice cracked. “I failed her, Tommy.”
Tommy stared, stunned by the broken, furious wreck beside him.
Joel wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand quickly, shoving it all back down, breath shaky. “I won’t fail her again. This ends… right here — right now.”
Tommy’s voice was quiet. “You’re not thinking straight, Joel.”
Joel turned on him, eyes blazing. “I am, Tommy. For the first time with this fucker, I am.”
A beat passed, then Tommy exhaled slowly.
“Alright. Fuck it.” He nodded and looked at the door Joel had his gaze stuck on.
“We do this smart. No signs of forced entry. No prints. We leave nothing they can pin back to us.”
Joel’s eyes narrowed. “Nothin’ that can make him look like the victim.”
“Agreed,” Tommy nodded.
Joel’s breathing finally started to slow. “What’s the plan?”
Tommy looked at the motel, at the shadows in the corner, the cameras that clearly didn’t work.
“I go in first,” he said. “Knock on his door, pretend I’m housekeeping or the front desk. If he opens it? I get inside. See if he’s alone. If he is… I drop him. Quiet. No mess.”
Joel nodded once, the tension coiling tighter in his gut.
“Then I turn on the lamp to signal you…” Tommy continued as the most of the lights were out in his room. “You come in, we do what needs to be done. And then…”
Joel raised an eyebrow, turning to look at his brother. “Then what?”
Tommy smirked faintly. “We make it look like one of the guys he owes came for collection.”
Joel blinked. “You want to pin it on one of the names?”
Tommy shrugged. “He already owes ‘em, and both of ‘em would do something like this but one would keep the cops away...”
He nodded toward the room as he continued, “We swipe one of his notes. Add some flair — leave it behind as like a warning. A little message in Spanish…”
Tommy could see the gears in Joel’s head start to turn, the muscles start to tense in his jaw the more he convinced himself it would work.
Joel looked at the room, “You're right... you know how jumpy the cops get when cartels are involved. They’ll step back…” He looked at his brother.
Tommy shrugged, “Plus, we’ll be each other’s alibis if they come sniffin’ around.”
Joel stared at the door of room 217 again, then down at his hands, now shaking slightly.
Tommy leaned forward and put his hand on his brother’s arm. “Look, we are either doin’ this right now or we’re walkin’ away… there’s not goin’ to be another chance.”
Joel nodded after a split moment, face set. “This ends now.”
Tommy opened his tool bag and pulled out a black ball cap, tugging it low over his eyes. He also pulled out an old hoodie and a pair of leather work gloves.
Joel looked over at him and nodded as he watched. “No fingerprints. No skin.”
Tommy smirked. “This ain’t my first rodeo, hermano.”
As he opened the door to leave, Joel reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t hold me back in there...”
Tommy looked him in the eyes. He saw how dark they were, how much rage he had behind them. He could see the guilt melted into his brother's normally light and bright brown iris’s — it now making his eyes almost black.
All he could do was nod and offer a tight smile, “I wouldn't dream of it.”
Joel watched him walk across the lot, each step echoing with quiet vengeance.
And as the street light flickered overhead, the only thing he could hear was your voice — soft and trembling in his memory:
“You make me feel safe…”
He whispered into the silence: “Forgive me, mi vida.”
Then he leaned over and pulled out the Glock he had from under the passenger side seat that he hoped he wouldn’t need to use, and put it down the back of his jeans, checked the time, and waited for the signal.
Everly's POV - 7:04 am
The room hummed with a type of quiet you can’t describe — the low murmur of machines, the soft hiss of the ventilator, the steady, unchanging beep of the heart monitor.
You hadn’t moved — not in the hours since surgery. Not since they brought you up from the ER and into the OR. You looked so fragile and pale, so still you hardly looked like the girl who used to shout across the pasture in the wind or laugh until you hiccupped.
Everly sat at the small chair near the window, fingers wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee. She hadn’t sipped it in nearly an hour. Not really. She just held it like it might anchor her to the moment – keep her somewhat warm in this cold world without your light.
Joel had been with you all night. He hadn’t even moved to eat or drink. He just sat beside your bed, one hand clasped in yours, like letting go might make something worse. His eyes had been bloodshot, rimmed with the kind of pain no sleep could fix. Everly tried to offer him food or rest, but he refused. He said he couldn’t leave you, he couldn’t bear it.
But then — sometime after the doctors came in for their morning rounds — something in him changed after Everly came in.
“I gotta go home,” he said after a long beat. “Freshen up. Change. Call my folks. I told ‘em I’d keep ‘em updated...”
Everly nodded without a second thought, she understood he might need a break, she doubted he’d be gone for too long. “Yeah, of course… go. I’ve got her.” she said after kissing your head.
He’d kissed your hand. Your forehead. Whispered something only you could hear then turned around and left.
That was two and a half hours ago.
Her thumb brushed across her phone screen. No new messages. No calls. Nothing from him.
She stood and stretched, the quiet in the room beginning to press too tightly against her chest. She moved to your bedside, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead gently, watching your chest rise then fall a few times with the help of the ventilator.
“You’re still fightin’. I know it,” she whispered. “I know you’re still in there.”
The door creaked open behind her, and she turned quickly.
Wes stepped in, shoulders hunched, eyes still tired.
“Hey,” he said softly. “How’s she doing this morning?”
You sighed slightly disappointed, and turned back, “No change,” nodding toward your still form. “Breathing tube’s still in. BP’s stable for now, but she’s not stirred. Doctors said a lot of medical things this morning — none of it good.”
Wes walked closer, eyes sweeping over the machines before landing on you. “Jesus…”
He paused. “Where’s Joel?”
Everly hesitated. “Went home a couple of hours ago. Said he’d be back quick.”
Wes furrowed his brow and looked down at his watch. “Couple of hours?”
“Almost three now,” she said, checking the time again. “He hasn’t texted or called…”
“That doesn’t sound like him...” Wes said, setting down his things.
“I know,” she said with a concern to her tone.
“Did he seem ok?” he asked, coming over to sit in the chair by your bed, taking your hand.
“I'm not sure... I think somethin’ rattled him after the doctors came in earlier.” She said, quieter.
They both stood in silence for a beat.
“He was wrecked last night,” Wes added. “Didn’t wanna leave her side for even two minutes. You think he…?”
“I don’t know,” Everly murmured, her voice uneasy. “He said he was just gonna shower and check in with his parents. Maybe something came up. Maybe…”
“Maybe what?” Wes perked, eyebrow arched.
She shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t know, Wes. He’s just… he’s been glued to her. Like she’s all he’s got. Somethin’ just doesn’t feel right.”
Wes exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You want me to try him?”
“I already did. Texted twice. No answer.”
Wes frowned, pulled out his phone, and tried calling. He held it to his ear for a moment.
“Straight to voicemail,” he said after a second. “Either it’s dead… or off.”
The pit that had been forming in Everly’s stomach dropped a little deeper.
She stood and started to pace to the window, arms folded tight across her chest. “Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe he stopped to check on something with his folks. Maybe he’s just sitting in the shower letting it all catch up to him.”
“Or maybe he went and did something dumb.” Wes said more to himself.
She turned to him, eyes flashing something between anger and concern.
“What? I’m not sayin’ he would,” Wes clarified, holding up his hands. “I’m sayin’ he looked like a man hangin’ on by a thread last night. And he’s got one thing on his mind… one person — to be more specific.”
“Riley.” She sighed.
Wes nodded. “That piece of shit damn near killed her. Miller’s ain’t the kind to let that go. You know that. They are known for keepin’ things balanced…”
Everly chewed her lip. “You don’t think he’d actually go looking for him?”
“I think if he thought Riley was still walkin’ free and breathin’ the same air, he might. Especially if he found something, or overheard something. He wouldn’t let that shit go...”
Everly’s eyes flicked to you again — to your pale, bruised skin, the hiss of the vent, the wires.
“God, if he does something reckless…” She came to sit by you again.
“He won’t,” Wes said, but it didn’t sound confident. “He’s smarter than that.”
But even as he said it, they both knew the truth.
Joel might be smart — but he was heartbroken. Furious. And terrifyingly quiet about it.
“I’ll give him thirty more minutes,” Everly said, voice tight. “Then I’m calling him again. And if I don’t hear back…”
“I’ll call some buddies of mine and go find him.” Wes offered.
They both looked at you again, the rhythmic beep of the monitor filling the space between them.
Riley’s POV - 5:19am
The air conditioner rattled in the window like it was trying to shake itself loose, drowning the room in a mechanical hum. Riley stood shirtless at the sink, rinsing his face, the cold water doing little to chase off the anxiety curling in his gut from the line of coke he had just snorted.
The duffel bag on the bed was nearly packed.
A few shirts, a pair of jeans. All of which were under stacks of wrinkled cash, and the folded IOU slips he hadn’t dared throw out. Sloppy? Sure. But part of him still thought he could bargain his way out of this whole mess.
He zipped it up halfway, stuffing the papers deeper inside as his burner phone buzzed on the laminate nightstand.
Incoming call: Judd
He sighed and clicked answer. “What do you want, Judd?”
“You still in town?” Judd’s voice was lower than usual, tense.
“Where the hell else would I be?” Riley muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“They’re sniffin’ around,” Judd said. “I just got a call from a buddy down at dispatch. Sheriff’s office flagged your name — said you might’ve been involved in what happened to Y/N… their lookin’ for you.”
Riley froze. “It was a car accident...”
Judd didn’t answer.
“It was a goddamn accident,” Riley repeated, pacing now. “She ran a light, that’s what they’re sayin’ on the news. That ain’t on me.”
There was a silence on the line, then Judd said flatly, “That buddy of mine said she’s got marks on her...”
Riley stopped walking.
“What?”
“On her neck. Her arms. They’re sayin’ it doesn’t match the accident injuries. They’re gonna ask me questions, Riley. And when they do, I’m not going down for this shit with you. You didn’t say anythin’ about hurtin’ her like that...”
Riley swallowed hard. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to hurt her, alright? I grabbed her. That’s it. She wouldn’t listen, and then she tried to leave—”
“Jesus Christ,” Judd hissed. “You told me you just wanted to talk to her.”
“I did!”
“But you grabbed her?” he scoffed.
“Just her arm. And her face for like—” he hesitated, exhaling. “Fuck—I lost it, okay? She was bein’ dramatic, you know? You know how she can be, right?”
Judd cursed on the other end. “You better start cleanin’ this up. They're gonna come after you — not me. This ain’t fallin’ on me.”
Riley’s jaw clenched. “Unbelievable. This was your idea! You’re the one who said I deserved a chance to talk to her—”
“You weren’t supposed to touch her!” Judd snapped. “You weren’t supposed to leave fucking marks! God you’re dumber than your daddy…” Judd coldly chuckled before he said in a low tone, “You better listen and listen well — get the fuck out of town, got it?”
Riley nodded then swallowed, “Got it.”
The line went dead as Judd hung up.
Riley stared at the phone, then tossed it onto the mattress with a curse. He yanked the duffel up and sat down hard on the bed, trying to breathe. His knee bounced. His mind raced.
'This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to have more time to come up with a plan.'
'Fuck. What am I going to do? I can't handle the cops on my ass..."
Then—three quick knocks.
“Maintenance,” a voice called from outside. “Got a report of a plumbing issue in one of the top rooms—need to check the lines.”
Riley blinked.
He looked at the door then the duffel. The duffel full of cash and pretty much two death notes.
“Fuck—” He muttered, his pulse spiked.
“Be right there!” he called, pushing the bag under the bed quickly.
He gave himself a quick glance in the mirror, grabbed a t-shirt, and tugged it over his head before opening the door.
A tall man stood there, maybe mid-20s, sun-worn, built like a man who worked with his hands. He wore jeans and a tucked-in button-up shirt — dark blue. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing a dusting of sawdust. He carried a silver toolbox in one hand, a wrench in the other, hands gloved. He looked the part, there was no doubt he was maintenance.
“Sorry to bother you so early, sir,” the man said with a hint of a Hispanic accent, his voice easy. “Got a call ‘bout a leak. Mind if I check your fixtures? Just routine.”
Riley narrowed his eyes slightly at the fixtures behind him. “Don’t think I noticed anythin' leakin' or off…”
“May not show yet. Could be coming through the wall,” the man said, motioning to the unit beside with a slight nod.
Riley hesitated but stepped aside. “Yeah, ok… yeah, um, come on in.”
Tommy stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind him. “Just you in here?”
Riley nodded turned back toward the small kitchenette. “Yeah, just me.”
He cleared his throat softly and followed close behind as Tommy took a few steps inside, looking around. “So, uh—what part do you need to check?”
There was a pause. Just long enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck.
Then a voice — low, calm — in fluent Spanish:
“Nadie escapa de la mordida de la serpiente.” (No one escapes the serpent’s bite.)
Riley turned, eyes wide.
“Wait, what did you say—?”
Then before he could register, the wrench came down hard — a sickening crack splitting the silence.
Riley’s body crumpled like a ragdoll against the edge of the bed frame, one arm twisted beneath him, the other limp at his side.
Tommy stood over him, breath steady, but his heart thrummed like a bass drum beneath his ribs. Not from fear — from fury. From the hate he had for men that hit women — especially good ones like you sank deep into his bones.
He rolled his shoulders back, suppressing the tremor in his right hand.
The wrench was slick with a smear of blood near the joint. Not enough to kill. But enough to remind Riley what it meant to be prey for once.
Tommy bent over and checked the pulse at the bastard’s neck.
‘Still there. Stronger than you deserve.’ he thought to himself.
"Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath in Spanish.
He grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped the wrench down clean before tossing it back into his open toolbox, careful not to leave anything out of place.
Then he turned and gave the room a once-over.
'Duffel under the bed. Burner on the sheets. Coke on the dresser. God, you couldn't have set this up better for us, pendejo.'
He crossed the room, nudged it open with the toe of his boot, and crouched. Inside: bundles of cash — crumpled but thick — and a worn manila envelope.
Tommy pulled it out and unfolded it carefully.
The two IOUs.
$10,000 and $9,000. One marked with a familiar name — “D. Santos” — the other with just initials: E.M.
Tommy’s jaw tightened. “No solo un pedazo de mierda, sino uno roto también…” (Not just a piece of shit, but a broke one too.)
He made a quick estimate of the money, maybe a couple grand — not nearly enough to pay either debt off.
He stood and flipped open the burner phone. No lock screen. No passcode.
‘Cabrón.’ he huffed.
The most recent texts were short, code-like. But one caught his eye as he scrolled through his inbox:
Riley: “I’ll get her to come around. One way or another.”
His stomach churned. That bastard sent it to Judd — and typed it to boot, too. Joel had been right. They were planning this. It was calculated.
He exhaled through his nose, fingers gripping the phone hard before placing it back.
He looked around the room once more then went over to the lamp in the window and turned it on and off twice before looking at Riley’s pathetic limp body. “Desearás no haber regresado nunca a casa.” (You're going to wish you had never come back home.)
Joel’s POV
The engine idled low beneath Joel’s boots as he leaned forward, elbows braced against the steering wheel.
His eyes locked on the second-story window.
Room 217.
The curtain didn’t move, but then—there it was.
A flick of light.
Once. Twice. That was the signal.
Joel swallowed hard. His throat felt tight — dry, like it was full of splinters.
‘It’s clear.’ he told himself.
His pulse began to thud, slow but strong. He could feel it in his neck, in his chest. In the places that had been numb to the last 24 hours.
He should’ve felt relief — but he didn’t.
Instead, something cold curled inside him — that flickering, bitter hesitation. The part of him that had been raised to walk away when the line between right and wrong blurred. The small part of him that was screaming:
‘This could ruin everything. If someone sees us. If Riley wakes up and talks. If she wakes up and needs you—and you're behind bars? Don’t be a fucking idiot.’
He exhaled, hard through his nose.
Then leaned back in the driver’s seat and opened his wallet he’d sat in the cup holder.
Inside, tucked neatly between a fifty dollar bill and an old parking ticket, was the two photobooth strips from the fair. He pulled them out, fingers already softly gliding over the photos — over the light of his life.
You.
That smile — god, that smile — frozen in time.
His hat perched on your head as you smiled when his lips touched your cheek. Your lips on his as he pulled you in for the first of many kisses. The warmth these eight photos and two strips of memories held.
He stared at it, thumb brushing over your image and he closed his eyes.
The weight in his chest was unbearable.
These same images had gotten him through the last 15 hours. Through the blood. The wires. The tube down your throat.
He hadn’t left your side once — not since.
Not until this. Not until he heard those doctors this morning suggest you’d might never come back to him.
Joel clenched his jaw and looked up at the motel window again. Then he thought of the marks on your neck, the handprints on your arms.
He thought of the way your voice must have cracked when you begged Riley to let you go with his hand around your throat.
He thought of the way your father invited Riley back, knowing damn well what kind of man he was.
Joel’s hand slammed down onto the steering wheel with a guttural grunt. His head dropped forward, forehead resting on the cool leather wheel. His breath heaved — sharp, ragged. And his chest ached with a fury he could no longer name.
This wasn’t just about retribution. This was about protection. Your protection.
You’d been prey — and he had failed to stop the wolf at the door.
Not again. Never again.
He lifted his head and shut the voice off, hardened himself to where it was all turned off and the only thing fueling him was the pent up rage he felt for this waste of space.
He opened the truck door slowly. The hinges creaked — the only sound in the quiet midday air.
His boots hit the pavement with weight. He put the hood of the hoodie he wore around his head and ducked his head down.
No one lingered outside. The blinds in the other windows were drawn. Just a lonely soda machine buzzing on the walkway beside the staircase.
He walked toward the stairs slowly, every footstep heavy, but sure. Like each one stamped down the wrath. Buried beneath it, was the beat of his own heart.
He climbed the stairs in silence, his hands clenched in the pockets of the hoodie to keep him from exploding.
When he reached the door, he paused.
One last breath. One last glance down at the photo from in his wallet — your smile, your eyes, your happiness.
‘For her.’ was all that he needed to tell himself before he slid the photo back into its sleeve, tugged his gloves on, and knocked once then three times on the door.
Tommy cracked the door a few seconds later, nodding once, face hard but calm.
Joel slipped inside.
The air was stale, and the room smelled like old smoke and something bitter beneath the bleach.
Riley was slumped in a chair. Still out cold.
He was zip-tied to a motel chair — wrists looped tightly, ankles bound to the legs — posture slumped and broken. His breathing was shallow and uneven.
His own dirty sock, used as a gag stuffed between his teeth had long soaked through with spit and blood. The duct tape held it all in place, tight around the jaw, silencing everything except his choked whimpers.
Tommy stepped back, arms crossed.
“He’s still out — but not for long,” he said softly in Spanish.
Joel’s eyes locked on the man before him — his heart turned to steel as he reached for the wrench sitting in Tommy's open tool box.
Riley groaned, head lolling forward beneath the pillowcase tied over his face. The fabric was soaked through near the top — blood from where the wrench had split his scalp — but not enough to kill. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to scare.
From across the room, Joel's boots moved slowly.
Measured. Heavy. Unforgiving.
He stepped into the dim light by the bedside lamp. No mask. Just eyes filled with hate, and his jaw set like stone.
He said nothing at first.
Just crouched beside the chair. Close enough for Riley to feel the heat of his breath through the cloth.
Then, quietly asked:
“¿Me escuchas, cabrón?” (Can you hear me, asshole?)
Riley suddenly twitched violently. A choked grunt escaped behind the gag.
Joel leaned in just a little closer, breath cold as ice.
“Vas a pagar todo lo que tomaste.” (You’re gonna pay everything you took.)
No names. No hints. Just the voice of a reckoning.
He stood again, slow and methodical, and reached for the wrench he’d had resting beside the chair.
He paced once in front of the chair. Then again, before coldly commanding.
“Confiesa lo que hiciste.” (Confess what you did)
Riley thrashed weakly and shook his head.
Joel didn’t hesitate — he drove a fist straight into his gut.
The chair rocked with the blow, the zip-ties creaking as Riley bent forward, gag-muffled cries filling the air.
“Confiesa, cuenta tus pecados” (Confess, tell your sins) Joel demanded again.
Riley tried to speak — begged through grunts — but again shook his head.
Joel hit him in the face this time, a clean, hard punch to the jaw that snapped Riley’s head to the side.
Tommy stood quietly in the corner, arms crossed, face unreadable, eyes dark.
Joel circled again, his veins filled with nothing but anger and rage, eyes black, chest starting to heave.
“You like power?” he hissed, slipping back into English. “¿Te gustó verla estremecerse? ¿Oírla llorar?” (You liked watchin’ her flinch? Hearin’ her cry?)
He struck again, knocking his head the other way.
Riley jerked and whimpered.
Joel’s nostrils flared.
He stepped back, bringing the wrench into his grip.
He heldd it high over Riley’s right leg.
“Veamos cuánto te gusta sentirte impotente.” (Let’s see how much you like bein’ powerless.) Then the swing was swift — brutal.
CRACK.
His kneecap gave instantly. Riley screamed behind the gag, thrashing, bucking, head whipping back and forth in immense pain.
Joel didn’t blink, didn’t flinch.
He waited. Let him writhe. Let him feel every second.
Then leaned in close again and whispered into the soaked pillowcase, putting his hand on the back of the chair to hold it still.
“Vas a rogar para morir antes de que termine.” (You’ll beg to die before this is over.)
Riley sagged, nearly faint.
But Joel wasn’t done.
“Confiesa,” he said once more — lower now, quieter, a devil’s lullaby.
Riley groaned something unintelligible.
¿Qué fue eso? No te entendí…” (What was that? I couldn’t understand you…)
He swung the wrench again, turning what was left to dust.
Riley’s body strained against his restraints and sobbed, his chest heaving quickly, unable to beg for him to stop.
“Stop?” He taunted in English, grabbing his hair through the pillow case, tilting his head back, setting the wrench down by the chair.
Riley’s head nodded through the pillow case, his sobs muffled.
“¡¿Me estás pidiendo que pare?!” (Are you asking for me to stop?) he yelled in his face, rage now taking over.
Riley could be heard agreeing as much as he could through the gag, his head beginning to nod more frantically.
Joel grabbed his face by grasping his jaw, keeping his head straight before he whispered only for him to hear, “¿Ella te pidió que pararas?” (Did she ask for you to stop?)
Riley sobbed, not knowing what was being asked of him. You could faintly hear him begging, "Please" through the gag, his chest heaving quickly up and down.
Joel held his face tighter, then muttered, "Fuck you." then wound up with a final, massive punch to the side of Riley’s face — and the chair buckled. One leg snapped out from beneath it with a sharp crack. Riley tipped backward, crashing to the floor with a sickening thud. His head struck the tile hard.
For only a split second the entire room went still — then Joel stepped forward, breath ragged, fists clenched, gaze locked on Riley’s body.
He stood over his limp, crumpled body and continued hitting his face — fists like hammers, falling again and again.
He didn’t even realize he was growling — something primal and broken in his throat. Every hit was a scream. A memory. Her voice. Her face. The bruises. The blood.
Tommy lunged forward when he heard bones begin to crack.
“¡Basta ya!” (That’s enough!)
He grabbed Joel by the shoulders and yanked him back hard.
Joel stumbled. Chest heaving. Eyes wild and rimmed red.
His hands shook — the gloves now covered in his revenge.
Tommy looked down at Riley’s body — still breathing, barely.
“¿Terminaste?” (Are you done?) Tommy asked, quiet but firm.
Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at his own hands.
Blood, dirt, and your name still echoing in his head.
He looked up, nodded once, and then turned his back on the body as he began gathering everything into Tommy’s tool bag.
Tommy went to work fast to set it all up. He dragged the duffel into the center of the room, smearing Riley’s blood along the edge of the dresser, then back toward the cracked chair. He dipped his fingers in the pool of blood near Riley’s mouth and drew the crude cartel symbol on the wall. The “S” with the line through it. Los Serpientes.
He tossed Riley’s burner phone beside the duffel. The manila envelope with the IOUs was placed carefully beneath it.
It all looked deliberate now — calculated.
“Vamos,” Tommy said as he closed the tool bag and slung it over his shoulder.
Joel lingered by the door, chest still tight.
He looked back once at Riley’s body lying in his own small pool of blood.
He prayed God wouldn’t be merciful. That he’d let him live — that he would have to come to head with the consequences of his actions of what he did to you. That he’d rot behind bars for it.
Then turned back and walked out into the early morning sunlight, the motel room door swinging shut behind him like a coffin lid.
Joel exhaled slowly through his nose, fists still clenching and unclenching at his sides as they made it back to their trucks.
“You good?” Tommy asked, dropping the toolbox into the bed of his work truck.
Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the rusted motel sign, the curtained windows, and the silence beyond the door.
“I’m better now than I was yesterday, now that I know he can’t hurt her again,” he muttered.
Tommy nodded. “We need to call it in.”
Joel nodded and took off the gloves he wore. Tommy took them and told him he’d take care of everything.
They walked two blocks down, boots crunching over cracked pavement, until they reached the corner liquor store. A dusty old payphone sat bolted into the side of the brick wall, faded blue handset dangling like a relic from another lifetime.
Tommy wiped it once with his sleeve before handing it to Joel. “Dial star-sixty-seven. Then 911.”
Joel took it with steady hands, pressed the buttons, and turned his back to the parking lot.
The phone rang once before a dispatcher picked up.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
Joel lowered his voice into something nondescript. “That man that’s wanted on the news, for beatin’ that girl from the accident? He’s at the Rosewood. Room 217.”
The line was quiet for half a second, keyboard clicks then, “Ok thank you for that information. Can I have your name for the police report?”
Joel paused. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Click.
He hung up and turned to his brother.
Tommy gave a small nod, pulling his cap lower on his head. “Let’s get gone before sirens show.”
They didn’t rush. They walked back to the truck slowly and steadily, just two working men leaving a job site. Nothing frantic. No guilt. No red flags.
Inside the cab, Joel stared out the windshield for a beat, his jaw tense.
“You think that’s enough?” Tommy asked quietly, leaning in through the passenger window from outside.
Joel didn’t answer right away.
“He won’t ever come near her again, and that’s all I need to know,” he said finally, turning the key to start the engine.
Tommy nodded and stepped back, gently patting the window. “That’s enough for me.”
By the time Joel pulled into his long gravel driveway, the adrenaline had worn off.
He stepped out of the truck and grabbed his phone from the cupholder. It had been dead since leaving the hospital. He could feel the tightness in his shoulders, the toll of every punch, every held-back scream.
He entered the house, walked past the photos on the wall, past the chair where you always curled up in the mornings with your coffee. He couldn’t stop to look at them, he needed to focus on getting back to the hospital — back to you.
Inside the bathroom, he started undressing, placing everything into a trash bag, and turned on the shower water.
He plugged in his phone, and when he powered it back on, messages started lighting the screen like fireworks. Missed calls from Everly. Wes. One from his dad. Two from his mom.
He quickly showered, taking as little time as he could to avoid any further suspicion on how long he’d been gone.
Then, just as he was toweling off, it buzzed against the counter.
Incoming Call: Everly
Joel’s heart thumped — not fast, not panicked. Just… ready.
He answered, voice low and steady. “Hey, everythin’ ok?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Everly’s voice cracked with worry. “I’ve called a dozen times—”
“I know, I’m sorry, my phone died right as I left, I just realized,” Joel said calmly, like nothing had happened. “You alright? Is she ok?”
There was a pause. Then a sigh of somewhat relief from her: “Yeah. Yeah, we’re okay. She’s the same. Still sleeping. The doctors came by about an hour ago… they are gonna try to wean her off sedation starting tomorrow, see if her cognitive tests improve...”
Joel’s eyes fell to the photo of you both on his nightstand — one of the two of you from the night at the cowboy bar, Tommy had taken of the two of you dancing in the middle of the crowd. His thumb brushed over the glass.
“I’ll be there soon,” he said. “Just needed to finish cleanin’ up. I’ll bring coffee.”
“You sure you’re alright?” she asked.
He could tell she heard it — the quiet. The stillness in him that hadn’t been there before.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said.
And for the first time in hours, Joel smiled with a sense of satisfaction washing over him.
Joel stepped off the elevator and walked down the unfortunate — yet familiar hallway. His boots echoed softly against the linoleum with each step he took. The scent of antiseptic burned in his nose, but he barely registered it. His body moved on autopilot, every step back to your room rehearsed in his mind.
When he reached the door, Everly was seated by the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Wes stood at the foot of your bed, talking quietly to a nurse. As he entered, both siblings turned — Everly with narrowed eyes, Wes with something colder.
Joel offered a calm, quiet nod. “She doin’ okay?” he looked at the nurse.
She nodded and gave a small, polite smile, “Just checking vitals, still stable.”
Everly stared for a second too long, then added. “Still asleep. No changes.”
Joel’s gaze moved to you instantly — the way your fingers still lay where he’d left them just hours before, your chest rising and falling. His expression was calm, but the storm behind his eyes hadn't yet passed.
Wes stepped forward, stepping into his gaze that was on you. “Hey… you mind stepping out with us for a sec?”
Joel blinked, setting down the to-go tray of coffee he’d brought for the three of them. “Yeah, what for?”
Everly stood slowly. “Just want to talk, give her a moment of some quiet, yeah?”
Joel hesitated, then walked over and gave your forehead a gentle kiss before he backed up and followed them into the hallway.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Wes didn’t wait. “Where the hell were you today?”
Joel’s jaw tensed at the tone he gave. “Told you. Needed to clear my head, plus I told you I had things to take care of.”
“Bullshit,” Wes snapped. “You ghosted us for hours. Didn’t answer a single call. Now you show back up lookin’ like you’ve seen a war, what the hell?”
Everly’s voice was low. “Joel… you’ve got this calm thing going on, and that’s not like you. Not right now — not since yesterday.”
Joel didn’t answer.
Wes took a step closer. “You went after him, didn’t you?”
Joel met his eyes. “Like I said, I had things to take care of.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wes muttered, turning away for a moment. “You think that’s what she’d want?”
Joel’s voice didn’t rise. “I think what she wants is to never need to be afraid again.”
Everly looked between them. “Just… just tell us you didn’t do anything that could tie back to you.”
But Joel didn’t respond, he just took a deep breath in and stared past them, avoiding the interrogation.
Then the television screen above them flickered, and the hospital hallway stilled as one of the nurses turned up the volume.
BREAKING NEWS: SUSPECT OF ASSAULT WAS FOUND BRUTALLY BEATEN AT ROSEWOOD MOTEL - POLICE SUSPECT TIES TO THE CARTEL.
The news anchor announced, “…suspected connections to cartel retaliation, possibly linked to unresolved gambling debts. The victim, Riley Jameson, was discovered bound and unconscious, with multiple injuries including a crushed knee, broken jaw, severe head trauma, and fractured ribs. Police say there is no current suspect, but the scene suggests organized involvement as the Los Serpentines tag was found inside the room along with an IOU note in Jameson’s possession.”
The anchor continued, but all three of them were frozen as they watched flashes of the crime scene shown.
Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all.
Wes turned to him slowly. “What did you do?”
Joel said nothing and looked at Wes with eyes that were begging him not to make him say it out loud.
Everly pulled the three of them closer and lowered her voice, “If this was you and God knows who else, just look at me and tell me one thing — were you smart?”
Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak at first; he just did one short nod before he cleared his throat and ran a hand over his scruff then inhaled deeply and quietly said, “Yes. Of course.”
Everly and Wes looked back at the TV and watched as Riley’s photo flashed on the screen. It continued going on about him being the main suspect in your investigation.
With that, an agreement was passed between the two of them without needing to say a word. They looked back at each other and silently vowed to never speak of this again.
Later that night
The soft click of the door closing echoed louder than it should’ve.
Joel stood still for a moment, blinking against the dim hospital light. The only illumination in the room came from the monitors — little green lines blinking, humming, keeping rhythm for the woman that held his heart lying still in that bed.
Everly and Wes had finally left to grab food. Promised they’d be back in thirty minutes. He nodded like it mattered, but all he could hear was the stillness — the kind that wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes.
He ran a hand down his face, then walked to your bedside slowly, his boots quieter now, like even they knew they shouldn’t disturb you.
You looked just the same — too pale, too still, too hollow.
A tube still down your throat, a bruise blooming a deeper shade of purple with each hour across your neck, tape clinging to your wrist where the IV line fed its steady drip.
He sat down in the same chair, assuming the position of the same posture. That same knot in his chest that hadn’t loosened since the day before.
His fingers reached for yours without thinking, threaded between them — holding onto you tight.
“You missed a hell of a sunset,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Orange like fire over the ridge. Buck would’ve loved it — Wes said he damn near galloped when he let him out to pasture.”
No answer — just the beeping.
Joel’s throat worked. He leaned forward, elbows braced the edge of the bed, thumb brushing slow circles into your knuckles.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to say this,” he whispered. “I’ve never been good with words. But I think you always saw through me anyway.”
A heavy silence continued.
“I did somethin’, sweetheart.”
He swallowed. “I don’t regret it. Not one goddamn second of it. I’d do it again. A hundred times over.”
His voice cracked then, raw and low. “But I wish… I wish you didn’t have to pay for it. I wish none of this ever touched you.”
He brought your hand to his lips and kissed the back of it softly. His stubble scratched against your skin as he lingered there.
“This ain’t how your story ends,” he whispered against your hand. “It can’t be.”
Another beat passed, then a sob climbed out of his chest — quiet, guttural, and stolen.
“Please don’t leave me…” he choked, dropping his forehead against your joined hands. “Fight. Please fight.”
Tears slipped from his eyes, soaking the edge of the sheet.
“I’m right here, baby… waitin’. I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll be the one to remind you who you are if you forget.” His voice shook. “Just don’t quietly go away. Don’t slip through my fingers like this...”
His body trembled now, voice breaking open like something sacred inside him cracked wide.
“I need you.”
The words spilled out like a prayer. Like a surrender.
“You’re my home. My girl. My heart. If you go… I don’t know if I’ll come back from it.”
He kissed your hand again, then moved forward, leaning forward and kissed your temple — soft, worshipful — like the kind of touch meant for memories, not flesh.
Then, slowly, he shifted.
Careful not to tangle in wires or disturb a single part of you, he climbed onto the edge of the bed, curling his larger frame against the small space you took up. His arm slid gently beneath your shoulders, the other resting protectively over your waist. You barely weighed anything. He could feel your ribs rise and fall against him with each breath the ventilator pushed.
His lips brushed your hairline as he settled close.
“I’m right here,” he whispered. “Come back to me, baby. Please…”
The room stayed silent aside from the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the monitor.
He closed his eyes, letting his cheek rest against your forehead, his body pressed against yours like a shield. “We’ve got so much left to do,” he murmured. “I want to tell you so much. Show you that canyon we drove past. Take you dancin’ under real stars — not ones strung up over a bar floor.”
He exhaled shakily. “I want a life with you, a family — I want to grow old beside you.”
A brief moment of silence took up space, and then — a twitch against his hand. One so faint he thought he imagined it.
His eyes opened. He looked down where your hand lay loosely in his. The monitor beeped on, steady. His thumb brushed across yours again, and this time— it moved.
Your finger curled — not by much, just the smallest twitch — but enough.
Enough to snap the breath from his lungs.
Joel sat up slightly, staring at your hand in his, as if willing it to move again. And it did.
Another flutter. Just as small. But just as real.
He let out a quiet, broken sound and brought your joined hands to his chest, holding them like a lifeline. His forehead dropped against yours once more.
“I understand,” he whispered, voice cracking with relief. “You’re fightin’.”
Tears slid down his cheeks, one after another.
“I’m right here when you’re ready. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I promise.”
His voice went quieter still.
“I’ve got you, baby.” he said as he held you close — not like you were slipping away, but like you were slowly, beautifully… coming back to him.
In the early hours of the next morning, the room was dark but not silent — the rhythmic hum of the ventilator filled the quiet space like a lullaby. Joel’s arm stayed around you as he lay curled beside you in the narrow hospital bed, your fingers still resting in his. One dim light above the sink cast a pale wash across the room, but otherwise, it was still. Peaceful.
At some point, he drifted off, forehead still resting near yours.
His dreams weren’t deep. They were full of disjointed memories — your laugh, your hand tugging his toward the photobooth at the fair, the way you whispered his name half-asleep in his bed a few mornings ago. He murmured something in his sleep, his hand twitching around yours.
And then a soft knock at the door stirred him from his sleep.
He blinked slowly, then sat up in a haze, disoriented, but a protective instinct kicked in immediately.
The nurse’s voice was low, gentle. “Mr. Miller?”
He rubbed his face and blinked again, taking in the sight of her and a man in scrubs standing just beyond the threshold. The badge on the man’s coat read Dr. Hayden Callahan, Neuro.
Joel straightened immediately, clearing his throat softly. He almost didn’t recognize him, he looked so different without scrubs on.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you. We just need to do a quick neuro check, if that’s alright.”
Joel nodded and slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb you. His boots hit the tile softly as he moved to the side, folding his arms and watching like a hawk.
Dr. Callahan stepped in first, shining a penlight into your eyes, murmuring to the nurse.
“Pupils are equal and reactive. No anisocoria.”
The nurse was already adjusting the bed, raising it slightly to position your head better.
“Can we remove the paralytics yet?” she asked softly.
“Already cleared with ICU protocol,” the doctor replied. “We’ve begun tapering her sedation, too. Let's see how her reflexes are responding...”
He leaned down and spoke to you calmly, clearly.
“Okay, sweetheart. If you can hear me, I want you to try to squeeze my fingers. Just a little squeeze — that’s it.”
Joel held his breath. His fingers curled tightly into his palms as he watched.
There was a pause — one second, two — and then— a twitch of your right pointer finger.
“Slight contraction in the right hand,” the nurse said quickly, her eyes flicking to the monitor, watching for anything to note.
Joel’s heart skipped. He took a step closer. “She… she uh, moved a couple times last night. Same thing as right now.”
Dr. Callahan nodded once. “She’s tracking. Still delayed, but she’s responding. Let’s try a command.”
He leaned closer to you again. “Alright, Y/N, can you open your eyes for me? Even just a little?”
After a few moments, your eyelids fluttered. Barely — just a tremble. But it was there.
Joel nearly stepped forward again but stopped himself, holding his breath.
“Good,” the doctor said gently. “That’s good, sweetheart.”
He turned to the nurse. “Mark this — reflexes are beginning to return. I’d say 36–48 hours until full arousal is likely, barring any unexpected pressure spikes.”
“Still risk of retrograde amnesia?” she asked softly.
“Always with temporal injuries,” he replied, adjusting the chart. “But it’s promising. Swelling is down nearly twenty percent from yesterday’s baseline.”
Joel’s throat caught. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to steady his breathing.
You were coming back to him.
Not in full — not yet. But it was happening. Little by little. You were fighting.
He watched as they finished their assessment — the nurse checking the IVs, adjusting your ventilator slightly — before she turned to him with a small smile.
“She’s stronger than she looks,” she whispered.
Joel nodded, eyes locked on your peaceful face. “Always has been.”
She nodded towards the door, “Mind if we step out for a moment?”
He pinched his eyebrows, confused, and looked back at you once, “Uhm, yeah, of course.”
She led him out to the middle of the hallway and hesitated before saying, “Uhm, there’s… one other thing.”
He turned toward her, brow furrowing.
“Her father’s here,” she said carefully. “He’s been in the waiting room for about an hour, he tried last night too. Apparently, he’s trying to get in to see her.”
Joel’s jaw tensed.
“We’ve denied him access per law enforcement instruction — the hold is still active while the investigation is pending. He’s refused to leave until he gets answers, but as you know, we can’t share any details with him due to HIPAA.”
Joel exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it briefly before muttering, “Christ.”
The nurse shifted her weight, lowering her voice. “Do you want us to call hospital security? Or contact the sheriff to have him removed?”
Joel looked through the window again — to you.
You were starting to look warmer, like you were coming back, you were refusing to give up.
He stared for a moment longer and then turned back to the nurse.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, his voice calm but threaded with steel. “Thank you for letting me know.”
Her eyes widened a little. “Are you sure?”
He gave a slow nod. “I won’t start nothin’. Thank you for letting me know.”
She hesitated, then gave a respectful nod. “The waiting room’s two floors down. Just take the east elevators. I’ll let the front desk know you’re coming.”
Joel didn’t say another word.
He looked back at you once more — at the color returning to your cheeks, the slow rise and fall of your chest.
“I’ll be right back, my love” he whispered, then turned, squared his shoulders, and walked down the hallway towards the elevators. His boots were silent but filled with a quiet rage — his purpose burning, steady, with every step.
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