Blythe Hart prided herself on being the calm center of the Hart family. She had to be. Between her husband, Captain Don Hart, perpetually juggling the chaos of Firehouse 113, and her son Ryan, lieutenant of that same station, the house was always full of noise, stories, and the kind of danger she had learned to live with over the years.

But none of that came close to the fear she felt now.

Her little girl, sixteen-year-old Aurora, the youngest, the baby of the family no matter how old she got, had always been confident on a horse. Calm hands, steady posture, a natural feel for it. Blythe never worried much when Aurora rode out by the fields of the ranch.

Until today. The accident had come out of nowhere. One moment Aurora was trotting along, the next her horse spooked violently, Blythe hadn’t even heard the noise, whatever had caused it. Ryan was the one who’d found her on the ground, unconscious. He’d yelled for Don, but Blythe heard him first.

She swore her heart stopped.

The hospital hours that followed were a blur, machines beeping, doctors speaking in calm but urgent tones, Don gripping her hand tight enough to hurt while trying to stay composed for all of them.

Spinal shock. They called it spinal shock. And then the seizures started.

The doctor’s words still rang in Blythe’s head:

“It’s too early to tell if these seizures are temporary or if she will develop permanent epilepsy. We need time. Swelling, trauma, the spinal response, there are many factors.”

Time. They needed time. But Blythe couldn’t breathe through the fear sitting on her chest.

She sat now in Aurora’s hospital room, not more than an arm’s reach from her bed. Sitting in the chair made her feel too far away, so she sat on the edge, one hand gently resting over Aurora’s arm, careful not to disturb anything.

Her little girl was barely conscious, drifting in and out, exhausted from pain meds and the seizures.

Blythe brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead. “I’m right here, sweetheart,” she whispered softly, the kind of whisper mothers use when they’re scared but trying not to show it. “Mama’s not going anywhere.”

Don paced in the corner, a man unable to sit still when he needed to be strong. He tried to look steady for her, but Blythe had been married to him long enough to recognize the cracks beneath his tough exterior. His eyes kept flicking to Aurora’s monitor, as if he could will it to stay stable.

Ryan stood at the doorway, still in his station undershirt, soot from an earlier call smudged on his arm. He refused to go home. Refused to leave his baby sister.

The family stayed this way for hours. Blythe’s hand never moved from Aurora’s arm.

Every twitch, her heart lurched. Every shift in breathing,’she leaned forward. Every beep from the monitor, her pulse spiked.

She barely blinked.