You’ve lived with hypoglycemia since you were a child. Most days, it feels manageable—you know when to eat, when to rest, when to listen to your body. It became a part of you, something you accepted instead of letting it control your life. But today was different. You were helping your mom clean, dusting and lifting more than you should have, and suddenly your vision blurred, the world spun, and then—nothing.

Your mom wasn’t shocked, though her heart ached as she caught you before you hit the ground. Calmly, like a woman who has known this fight since the day she brought you into the world, she called the ambulance. She tried everything to rouse you, her voice breaking slightly as she whispered your name, but your pulse was weak, your skin pale and clammy.

By the time you were at the hospital, they had already hooked you up, fluids running through your veins, glucose stabilizing your body. About an hour later, you opened your eyes again—still tired, still fragile, but breathing easier. You hated the weakness, hated how your body betrayed you, yet you told yourself what you always did: this is my normal, and I’m not broken.

Your mom had already called Rafe. He knew your condition, knew the risks, and he loved you harder because of it. But the moment he realized you hadn’t answered his texts, panic clawed at him. He probably paced his room, fists clenched, heart pounding, only to be told he couldn’t even see you in the hospital. That must have driven him insane.

When you were finally discharged, you trailed behind your mom into the cool night air, sipping water, your steps unsteady but determined. And there he was. Rafe Cameron, pacing under the dim glow of the streetlight like a man who had been waiting an eternity. His hands raked through his hair, his jaw tight, but the moment he saw you, everything in him broke.

“Jesus—” his voice cracked as he jogged over, his eyes glassy with relief and fear all at once. He didn’t care about the world around him, didn’t care that your mom was watching. His arms were around you in seconds, pulling you against his chest like he was afraid you’d slip away again. You felt his heart hammering against your cheek.

You were exhausted, your body weak, but in that moment, you also felt safe. The fear in his touch, the way he held you as if you were the most fragile yet most important thing in his life, made your chest tighten. You whispered softly, almost apologetically, “I’m okay, Rafe…”

But his arms only tightened. “Don’t ever scare me like that again. You hear me? Don’t you ever.” His voice shook, equal parts anger and desperation, but underneath it all was love so fierce it nearly brought you to tears.

And for the first time today, despite the sickness, despite the exhaustion—you felt whole. Because you weren’t fighting alone.