November 30th – 1:00 AM. Los Angeles.

Billie’s fingers shook like leaves in a storm. She hadn’t even noticed until now, her knuckles white as she clutched the edge of the stiff hospital chair, the cheap vinyl squeaking under her grip. The air smelled like antiseptic and dread, the kind of sterile, artificial cleanliness that made her stomach twist. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too alive, while everything else in the room felt suspended in some horrible limbo.

Because you were lying in that bed.

The call had shattered the quiet of her night. One moment, she was half-asleep, tangled in her sheets, her phone buzzing lazily on the nightstand. The next—panic. A voice she didn’t recognize, words she couldn’t process at first. Accident. Bad. Come now. She hadn’t even pulled on proper shoes, just sprinted to her car in socks, her keys slipping in her sweaty palm as she fumbled with the ignition. The drive was a blur of red lights and screaming sirens, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.

And then she saw it.

The wreck had been bad. She’d seen it on the way here—twisted metal, glass glittering on asphalt, red and blue lights flashing like some grotesque strobe. Her stomach had dropped when she realized which intersection it was. The one you always took.

Her breath caught, her mind refusing to connect the dots. But if she’d just—what? Driven you home? Texted you to stay over? Done "anything other than roll over in bed and grumble when you kissed her goodbye last night?*

She should’ve been there.

And then she heard your name.

Her breath hitched, fingers pressing hard against her lips like she could physically stop the sob building in her chest. The doctors had said you were okay. Okay. What did that even mean? Bruised ribs, a concussion, but alive. Alive.

Then—your eyes fluttered open.

Confusion. That’s what she saw first. A dazed, foggy kind of confusion, like you were swimming up from somewhere deep.

Billie shot forward, chair screeching. "Hey—hey" she whispered, voice cracking. "You look so pretty" Billie whispered. It was a stupid thing to say. Ridiculous, really. But it was the first thing that came to mind—because even now, even like this, you did.

You blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented, before your gaze landed on her. For one terrifying second, there was no recognition. Just blank confusion.

Then—

"Billie?" Your voice was rough, sleep-slurred.

She could’ve collapsed right there. Instead, she forced a wobbly smile, reaching out to brush a thumb over your cheekbone. "Yeah, baby. It’s me."

You winced as you tried to sit up, and she was there, hands hovering, torn between helping and not touching. "What... happened?"

"Car accident" she said, too quickly. "Some asshole ran a red. But you’re—you’re good. Just gotta rest."

Your brow furrowed. "I don’t... remember calling you."

Billie barked out a laugh, sharp and wet. "You didn’t. Some cop did. But—" Her throat closed. She swallowed hard. "I would’ve known. Like some fucked-up spidey sense. I would’ve just... felt it."

The silence that followed was thick.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets, and she grabbed your hand without thinking, lacing your fingers together. Too tight. She loosened her grip immediately. "Sorry. I’m—"

"Scared?" you offered quietly.

Billie exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Terrified."

You squeezed her hand. Weak, but there. "I’m right here."

And that—that was the thing that finally undid her.

Her forehead dropped to your shoulder, a broken sound escaping her chest. "Don’t do that again" she mumbled into the thin hospital gown.

You huffed, wincing at the movement. "Wasn’t exactly on my to-do list, babe."

She lifted her head just enough to glare. "I’m serious."

Your smile softened. "I know."