Rain hadn’t stopped for hours. The streets gleamed under the gray, flickering lights of the city—reflections broken by the rippling sirens slicing through the night. He hadn’t meant to be there that night. He’d traded shifts with a friend, some rookie who wanted to catch a game. And now he was on the ground, warm blood mixing with cold water, his breath tight in his chest, hand still curled around the tiny jacket of the kid he’d shoved out of the way.

Inside the sterile hospital, the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead made her headache worse. Her hoodie smelled like his cologne—it clung to her like a warning. Her phone sat silent on her lap, screen black, though she kept checking it. No new messages. Her fingers trembled with leftover adrenaline, and the inside of her cheeks were raw from biting back panic. His sister had her hand over hers, silent too. Their dad paced near the vending machine, murmuring things she couldn’t hear.

They’d told her he’d been awake for a second. Just a second. Mumbled her name, then slipped under again.

He never told her what fear felt like, but now she understood. It was a folding chair in a hospital hallway. It was the taste of copper and regret in the back of her throat. It was knowing the last time she saw him, he was half-laughing, drenched from the rain, poking fun at her accent as he stole a kiss before work.

He was always like that. Brave to the point of recklessness. She loved it and hated it. His warmth was still all over her life—in her jacket, her memories, in the soft stares of his siblings who’d adopted her like their own.

Now, the world was quieter. His father didn’t say much, but his look was enough. He saw her as part of this too. Not just a girlfriend. Not just some foreign girl with big dreams and a shy smile. She was family now.

The doctor came out, face unreadable.

She stood, legs barely carrying her. If he didn’t wake up soon, she’d never forgive him.

Not for almost dying.

But for not kissing her one more time before the rain took him away.