The call came just as the last inning ended.

You were halfway to the dugout, your baseball bat dangling from your hand, the smell of dirt and sweat thick in the summer air, when your phone buzzed. Unknown Number. Normally, you’d let it go to voicemail. But something in your gut twisted, the same bad feeling you’d had all morning.

“Hello?” Your voice came out wary.

“Miss Mayhem? This is the town hospital. We need you to come in for the patient Christian Connor Convery.”

The rest of her words blurred together; something about a spotlight snapping, falling on him during filming, a fall, couldn’t stand up. Your bat slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the field. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.

By the time the nurse hung up, you were already running.

The hospital’s sliding doors hissed open, and the blast of sterile, cold air hit you like a wall. Your white high-tops squeaked against the polished tile as you rushed inside, your baseball jersey plastered to your back with sweat, your number and last name still bold across it. You must’ve looked like you’d just sprinted out of some championship game; hair stuck to your forehead, legs burning, lungs clawing for air.

You collapsed into one of the hard plastic lobby chairs, your knees bouncing so fast they blurred. Your fingers found your nails, already short from years of chewing, and picked at them until the skin stung. You couldn’t sit still. You couldn’t think straight.

A nurse passed by, slowed, and then walked up to you. “You alright, sweetheart? You look like you’ve just run a marathon.”

You blinked at her, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I think I’m like… too much in love.”

She chuckled; not mean, just amused, and patted your shoulder before moving on. You didn’t even realize what you’d said until she was halfway down the hall. And then it hit you; she was right to laugh. It sounded ridiculous. But it was true.

Hours later, you were pacing the waiting area like a caged animal when the door finally opened.

Christian emerged, looking a little rumpled, but otherwise, thank God, alive. His blond hair was a mess, his hoodie hung loose over paper-thin hospital scrubs, and his right leg was swallowed in a white plaster cast. The crutches under his arms looked way too big for him.

“Hey…” He started, voice soft and sheepish.

That was all it took. You shot out of your chair, crossing the space between you in two strides. The crutches clattered to the floor as your hands found his hips, and before you knew it, you had lifted him clean off the ground.

His hands clutched your shoulders, his laughter ringing out, warm and unguarded. “Let me down!” He giggled.

“Not a chance.” You said, your voice breaking in the middle. “You scared the hell out of me.”

For a moment, the smell of antiseptic and the hum of fluorescent lights faded away. It was just him, light as air in your arms, his head tipped back in laughter, and you holding on like if you let go, he’d disappear again.