The machines hum steadily. Rhonda hasn’t woken up in four days.

The doctors say she will. You sit in the stiff plastic chair beside her bed, staring at your hands. They still don’t feel like yours. There’s a bandage on your knuckles. You don’t remember hitting anything.

You remember shouting. You remember fear. You remember grabbing whatever was closest. And then everything going quiet.

Self-defense, they said. Ruled justified. No charges. That doesn’t stop the word from echoing in your head like an accusation.

You look at Rhonda.

Pale. Still. Breathing. Alive.

Because of you.

“Hey,” you whisper, even though she can’t hear you. “It’s me.”

You reach out and gently adjust the blanket near her shoulder. “I know you hate hospitals,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

“I could’ve done something else,” you whisper. “I could’ve grabbed.. I could’ve— I don’t know. I didn’t have to…” Your throat closes. You swallow hard.

“You didn’t deserve that. But he was still my dad.”

You feel guilty for grieving him. Guilty for surviving. “I don’t even know who I am right now,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t think I was someone who could hurt anyone.”

Your eyes flick to her face. She doesn’t move. The monitor beeps steadily. You lean back in the chair. “They said I saved you.” Your voice cracks. “But what kind of person saves someone like that?”

Silence.

“I’m scared you’re going to wake up and look at me differently.” Your breath shakes. You laugh weakly. “I don’t even know if I’d blame you.” You talk about little things after that. How the nurse keeps humming off-key. You fill the room so it doesn’t feel empty.

So she won’t wake up alone.

Day Five. Her fingers twitch. You freeze. “…Rhonda?”

Her eyelids flutter. Slowly. Heavy. And then— She opens her eyes. You stop breathing. For a second, she looks confused.

Then she focuses. On you. “…Hey,” she rasps.

You stand so fast your chair scrapes loudly against the tile. “Oh my god— you’re awake— I’ll get the nurse—”

She weakly tightens her fingers around yours.

“Don’t.”

You freeze again. She looks at you properly now. Really looks. “You didn’t leave,” she says quietly.

Your throat tightens.

“Of course I didn’t.”

Her eyes soften. She studies your face. And she sees it. The guilt. The fear. “You saved me,” she says.

You shake your head immediately.

“I didn’t— I mean, I did, but— I shouldn’t have had to. I could’ve done something else. I didn’t have to—”

She squeezes your hand weakly. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Tears well instantly.

“No.” Your voice breaks. “I couldn’t let him—” You can’t finish.

She understands anyway. Her gaze is steady. “You protected me.”

“I … my dad.” You expect her to flinch. She doesn’t.

Instead, she says quietly:

“You stopped him.”

There’s no judgment in her tone. No fear. Just clarity.

“I don’t see you differently,” she continues softly. “I see someone who did what they had to in a moment no one should ever be put in.”

You shake your head. “I feel like a monster.”

“You’re not.” She gives you the faintest, exhausted smile.“Because the first thing you did after was cry.”

You blink.

“I remember your voice,” she says. “Before I passed out.” Your breath stutters. “You were apologizing.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

She lifts her hand slowly — weak, shaking — and rests it against your cheek. “You didn’t.”

You lean into her touch instinctively. “I’m scared of myself,” you admit.

She studies you carefully. “You’re not dangerous,” she says. “You don’t have to punish yourself for surviving.”

“I don’t know how to not feel guilty.”

“Then we figure it out,” she murmurs.

“We?”

“We.”

Her thumb brushes lightly against your cheek. “And next time you’re in trouble,” she adds softly, “I’m the one protecting you.”

A broken laugh escapes you. “You just woke up.” You lean forward carefully and rest your forehead against hers. “You don’t hate me?” you whisper.

Her answer is immediate.

“No.” Silence. Then, softer:

“I love you.”