Page 199 of Make the Play

She lifts a shaky hand and rests it against my chest, fingers curling into the fabric and tugging me closer to ground herself, to prove I’m real.

My eyes move over every inch of her, cataloguing. I want to press a kiss to every place that hurts, fill every crack with the care and softness and love she deserves. I want to give her back every second she had to fight without me.

“Don’t,” she says, voice cracking. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

My throat cinches. “You’re not broken, baby.”

“He drugged me.”

The words gut me, and my palm slides to the back of her head, tenderly cradling her like something fragile—but she’snot. She’s steel and fire and fuckinghere, and I will never stop holding her now I’ve got her back.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “It’s over. You’re safe, I swear.”

The sirens scream sharp and urgent as cars skid to a stop around us. Red and blue strobe across the brick walls as cops flood the alley. Medics, too. Barked orders and rushing feet blur into background noise.

Zoe flinches and grabs my wrist, like she’s bracing for another fight.

“Hey, hey,” I say quickly, cupping the unbruised cheek, forcing her eyes back to mine. “It’s just backup. Medics and cops. All here to keep you safe, sweetheart.”

She nods again, slower this time, but the grip on my wrist doesn’t ease.

Someone suddenly yells for me to step back. I don’t. One of the EMTs crouches beside us.

“Sir, we need to check her out. Can you step back?”

“She stays with me,” I growl. “I’m not leaving her.”

Hands grab at me, but Zoe’s voice cuts through the chaos.

“Don’t touch him!”

It’s loud, firm, and the clearest she’s sounded since I found her. The officers hesitate, and the paramedics swarm in. Shetries to push up on her own, but her legs sway beneath her. When I reach for her, she shakes her head and grits her teeth, getting upright without help.

One of the EMTs gestures for her to sit on the gurney, but she doesn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere without him.”

“Ma’am, we just need to evaluate you—”

“That’s fine, but with him beside me.”

I step forward instantly and take her trembling hand, and she threads our fingers together, squeezing tight.

We ride together to the ER. I sit beside her, one arm braced around her shoulders, anchoring her to me. She doesn’t lean in, she’s too stiff and tense. But she doesn’t let go of my hand, either.

When we reach the hospital, she walks under her own power. Refuses the wheelchair. The nurse looks like she wants to argue, but doesn’t.

Inside the exam room, they begin their assessment. A trauma nurse, quiet and efficient, runs vitals while a hospital advocate sits nearby, a clipboard in hand. Zoe answers every question flatly.

“What did he use?” the nurse asks gently. “Do you remember what he put in your drink?”

“Not sure,” Zoe says. “Head’s fuzzy, but I didn’t black out.”

My hands fist at my sides.

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