Page 25 of Good Graces

I saw it in the way her hands clenched when her phone rang late at night, how her shoulders locked tight with tension before she even looked at the screen. In the way exhaustion sat heavy beneath her eyes some mornings, the dark circles she never quite managed to cover up. In the way she never let herself rest, like the moment she did, the world would pull the rug out from under her.

I saw it in the way she loved him. Fiercely, protectively, like it was stitched into her bones. And now, something’s wrong.

I swallow hard. “What kind of emergency?”

Robbie shrugs. “Don’t know. She just called out last minute, said she couldn’t come in.”

I nod slowly, distracted, forcing my fingers to loosen around the strap of my bag. “Alright. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s not my business. Not anymore. But that doesn’t stop my stomach from knotting or my mind from racing through worst-case scenarios. It doesn’t stop the part of me that still cares. Still worries.

Outside, the heat presses close. Heavy and unmoving. I step out into it and pause.

This was supposed to be simple. A summer job. A paycheck. Nothing more. Even when she showed up again, I told myself I could manage. Keep her on the periphery. Let her blur into the background.

But Quinn’s never been background noise.

And no matter how much I want to be indifferent, I’m not.

I can’t be.

9

QUINN

Hospitals havea way of pressing into your skin, of making the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. The cold sterility of the air. The low, mechanical hum of machines. The scent—sharp, antiseptic, too clean.

I’ve spent enough time in places like this to know that the worst moments of your life don’t come with dramatic soundtracks or flashing warning signs. They happen quietly. In waiting rooms, in hallways, in cramped hospital chairs. In the lull between doctors’ visits, where you sit there, staring at the speckled tile, waiting for someone to tell you something definitive.

Wesley stirs beside me, shifting against the thin hospital sheets. He’s been out for the last hour, breathing slow and steady, his dark curls a mess against the pillow. The IV line taped to his arm looks out of place on him. I hate it.

I glance at the monitor above his bed, tracking the soft beeps of his heart rate. Normal. Stable. Fine.

He’s fine, Quinn.It was only a seizure.

Not the worst one he’s had, but bad enough. He collapsed in the middle of the kitchen, his head smacking against the tile. By the time Mom got to him, he was already coming out of it, confused, unsteady. Dad carried him to the car while she called ahead to the hospital.

They kept him overnight for observation, running the usual tests. Checking his heart. Watching for anything they might’ve missed.

He’ll go home today,they told us. And that’s what I keep reminding myself, that at least he’s stable for the time being.

But I know how this works. Stability doesn’t mean safety, and fine doesn’t mean forever.

The bed creaks as Wesley shifts again, his eyelids fluttering. He groans. “You’re still here?”

“Nah,” I murmur with a tiny half-assed smirk. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Damn. Kinda hoped I was.”

I flick the side of his arm, careful of the IV. “Asshole.”

Wes huffs a laugh, but it turns into a wince as he moves too fast.

“Slow down,” I warn, my smirk fading. “You good?”

He presses his fingers to his temple. “Yeah. Just ... headache.”

I nod, leaning back in the chair I’ve spent too many hours in. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but I’m used to it by now. I’ve spent too many nights in chairs like this, memorizing the shape of worry and what it feels like to wait.

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