The rain did not fall that night — it attacked.
Thick, violent sheets of water hammered the windshield like fists, blurring the streetlights into trembling halos. The wipers fought desperately, scraping back and forth in frantic strokes, but the storm swallowed everything faster than the blades could clear.
Riley sat in the backseat, her fingers tangled in the sleeve of her father's jacket. She wasn't even fully aware she was holding onto him — it was instinct, fear, something primal. The smell of burnt rubber from the skidding tires still clung to the air, mixing with the metallic hint of blood.
Her father's breathing was wrong.
Too shallow.
Too slow.
Too fragile.
"Dad?" she whispered, leaning forward. "Dad… you're bleeding."
Her voice trembled, but her father didn't respond. His eyes were half-open, dimming in and out like a bulb losing electricity. His head rested against the seat, lips parted, chest rising with effort that looked painful.
Beside him, gripping the wheel with one good hand, sat Mr. Hale — Ryan's father.
A deep cut ran across his forehead. Blood trickled down into his eyebrow, dripping at the corner of his jaw. But his eyes stayed sharp, focused, determined to get them to safety.
"Hold on," he muttered, breath tight. "We're almost there. Just… stay awake."
Lightning flashed white across the sky, illuminating three faces — one terrified, one fading, one fighting.
"James," Mr. Hale said again, voice cracking in a way Riley had never heard. "Stay with me. Don't close your eyes."
But Riley's father gave no answer.
The truck had come out of nowhere — one minute they were turning down a quiet road, the next there was a scream of brakes, a violent hit from the side, then spinning, spinning, spinning—
Riley squeezed her eyes shut as memory stabbed through her.
The metal crushing inwards.
Her father's gasp of pain.
The sound of shattering glass.
The smell of smoke.
Then darkness.
She opened her eyes and leaned forward, pressing her palm to her father's chest. He barely reacted.
"Dad, please…" Her voice cracked like thin glass. "Don't do this. Don't leave me."
Tears blurred her vision, mixing with the glow of passing streetlights.
But his eyelids only fluttered, as if even that motion was too heavy to carry.
Mr. Hale stepped harder on the accelerator.
"We're almost there," he muttered. "Stay with me. Both of you."
But the shaking in his voice told Riley something she couldn't bring herself to accept.
Something was slipping away.
Someone.
And the world outside, drowned by rain and wind, didn't care.
---
The hospital parking lot appeared like a blurry island of white lights and shadows. The car screeched to a stop, and within seconds, nurses came rushing with stretchers.
Riley tried to follow her father, but the moment she stepped out of the vehicle, her vision tilted. Pain shot through her skull and the world spun.
"Riley? Riley!"
Someone was shouting.
Or maybe she imagined it.
Her body gave out before she could answer, collapsing into a cold, terrifying silence.
She fell into a coma — a deep, hollow darkness where voices echoed but faces never appeared. Time slipped away from her. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes into two full days she would never remember.
But while she slept, life moved forward.
And death waited for no one.
Two days later, Riley opened her eyes.
The hospital room was quiet except for the distant footsteps of nurses and the steady drip of an IV. Her head felt heavy, her vision blurred.
The first thing she noticed was the sterile smell of the hospital room, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the fog in her mind. Blinking, she tried to focus, and that's when it hit her—the empty space in the chair beside her bed where her father should have been. The reality clawed at her chest with merciless fingers: he was gone
The first word she whispered was:
"…Dad?"
But the silence answered her.
And somehow, she already knew.
Tears pooled in her eyes before she could even stop them. Her body shook with sobs she couldn't control, her hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor her to something real.
"Hey… hey, it's okay," a deep, steady voice that belonged to Mr.Hale murmured.
He pulled a chair closer and sat beside her, careful not to crowd her, yet close enough that she could feel the quiet strength radiating from him. "I know… I know it hurts," he said softly. "I can't take the pain away, but you don't have to face it alone."
Her sobs only grew, and she buried her face into the thin hospital blanket, shaking. He placed a hand gently on her back, rubbing slow circles, patient and steady. "It's okay to cry. It's okay to be broken. He loved you more than anything, and it's… it's okay to feel lost without him."
Her words came out in gasps. "I don't… I don't know how to live without him…" he was my only family.
"You don't have to know right now," he replied. "One day at a time. One breath at a time. He's… he's still with you, in every memory, every laugh, every lesson he taught you. That doesn't go away."
She couldn't stop. No matter how many words of comfort he offered, no matter how steady his hand was on her back, the grief clawed through her like fire, relentless and raw. Her sobs shook the bed, her body trembling as if the loss itself had taken root inside her.
He sighed softly, a mixture of concern and helplessness in his eyes. "You're hurting yourself, love," he murmured. "Your body… it needs rest, even if your heart doesn't."
Gently, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bottle, unscrewing the cap with careful fingers. "The nurse said this will help you sleep," he said softly, almost like a whisper meant just for her. "Just for a little while… so you can rest.
She shook her head violently at first, tears still streaming, hands clawing at the sheets. "I… I don't want to stop crying," she gasped. "I can't… I can't…"
"I know," he said quietly, his voice patient and steady. "You don't have to stop crying. Not yet. But your body… It needs a break. Just a few hours of peace. Please."
He helped her sit upright carefully, and with gentle insistence, he offered the pill. Her hands trembled as they accepted it, the tears still streaming unchecked, but her body slowly grew heavier, weighted down by exhaustion she hadn't realized had been building beneath the grief.
He sat beside her, holding her hand loosely, whispering soft reassurances she could barely hear over her own sobs. Slowly, gradually, the tears became quieter. Her body sagged into the bed, the sobs fading into quiet hiccups, and finally, she drifted into a restless, tear-streaked sleep.
He stayed there, a silent sentinel, watching over her, letting her grief breathe, while he has a flashback of he and her father's last moment
---
Mr. Hale was bandaged, exhausted, and covered in the dried brown of blood that was partly his, partly not his. But he refused to leave without visiting his closest friend — Riley's father, James Bennett.
The room was dim except for the soft glow of the machines. The beeping had slowed, painfully slow, each one echoing like a countdown.
James lay still, his chest barely rising.
"James," Mr. Hale whispered, stepping closer. "I'm here."
James opened his eyes weakly. It took everything in him just to turn his head.
"Don't talk," Mr. Hale said quickly, placing a hand on the edge of the bed. "Save your strength. You'll get through this. The doctors—"
"No," James rasped.
His voice was barely audible, a dry whisper scraping through his throat.
"I won't."
Pain shot through Mr. Hale's expression.
"Don't say that."
"I know my body," James whispered. "I've been sick… for months."
Mr. Hale's eyes widened. "What?"
James gave a faint, sad smile. "Didn't tell Riley. Didn't want her worrying."
Mr. Hale gripped the bed rails. Hard.
"Why? Why would you keep that to yourself?" You could have told me , why are we friends if I don't know about your sickness , huh ?
"I thought I had time," James breathed. "But the crash… pushed everything over the edge."
His hand lifted shakily.
Mr. Hale grabbed it immediately.
James's voice trembled.
"Take care of her. Please."
"You know I will," Mr. Hale said instantly, swallowing the burn in his throat.
But James shook his head weakly.
"No. Truly take care of her."
Mr. Hale's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"
James licked his dry lips.
"I want… Riley to marry Ryan."
Silence.
Mr. Hale froze. "James…"
"She loves him," James whispered. "She always has. I saw it in her eyes every time he came around."
Mr. Hale looked away sharply. "You can't ask this of me. Ryan—"
"Promise me," James said, voice shattering.
"James—"
"Promise me."
Tears slipped from the corner of James's eyes. For Riley. For the future he would never see.
Mr. Hale felt his chest break — actually break.
"I promise," he whispered.
James's hand relaxed.
His breathing slowed.
Then stopped.
And the silence that followed was heavier than the storm outside.
Flashback ends
He brought out his phone and sends a message to Ryan , his first son , "come to the hospital now" .
---
Ryan Hale stood outside her room, hands shoved in his pockets, expression stiff and irritated. His father has told him to come visit Riley
He hated hospitals.
He hated feeling obligated.
He hated being told what to do.
But most of all, he hated the guilt that crawled under his skin — because his father made him come, and because he actually came.
He turned toward the bed.
Riley looked so small there. So quiet. So breakable.
Her eyes fluttered open — and when she saw him, something warm flickered in them.
"Ryan?" she whispered.
That soft tone…
It made something uncomfortable twist in his stomach.
"Yeah," he muttered, looking away.
"You came to see me?" she asked, almost smiling.
Ryan scoffed. " More like I was forced."
But instead of being hurt…
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
A weak, breathy giggle that shouldn't have made his chest tighten — but it did.
"Wow," she teased. "You actually listened to someone."
Ryan glared. "Don't start."
She moved a little. Winced. He reacted before he realized — stepping forward, hands half-raised like he was going to steady her.
He froze.
She noticed.
And she smiled like she'd caught him doing something illegal.
"You're so dramatic," she murmured.
"You're so annoying," he shot back.
"Ryan."
"Riley."
And there it was — that tension he hated so much.
The tension he couldn't shake.
How are you ?Ryan asked without maintaining eye contact with Riley.
Riley responded by raising her eyebrow while sighing "I'm fine I guess, what do you think Ryan, Do I look fine ?"
Mhm you look better, Ryan said acting like the caring time is over.
The room fell silent
Ryan stayed in the room longer than he intended.
Longer than he wanted.
Longer than made sense.
He sat stiffly on the visitor's chair, arms crossed, leg bouncing, trying very hard to pretend he didn't feel Riley watching him.
And she was watching him.
Every few seconds, she stole a glance — subtle, soft, like she was studying him.
Or remembering him.
Or missing him.
He didn't like that thought.
At all.
"Ryan," she said quietly.
He didn't look at her. "What."
"Thank you… for staying."
He didn't say 'you're welcome.'
He didn't say anything.
She only smiled faintly, as if she expected that response from him.
Then she shifted again and nudged his foot with hers.
He jerked like she'd touched a live wire. "Can you not do that?"
Riley blinked innocently. "Do what?"
"That. Touching me."
"But it's funny."
"It's annoying."
"You're always annoyed."
"Because you're always—" He stopped himself, groaning. "Forget it."
She giggled.
How the hell was she giggling?
Hours after learning her father was gone.
Hours after waking from a coma.
But that was Riley.
Bright in dark places.
Trouble in human form.
He hated it.
He liked it.
He refused to think about it.
She leaned back on the pillows, staring at him for a long moment.
"You know…" she whispered, almost playfully, "you're the first familiar face I saw when I woke up."
Ryan glanced at her sharply.
"I thought I was dreaming," she whispered. "Because you don't exactly look like someone who visits hospitals."
"I don't," he said flatly.
"But you came."
Ryan had no comeback.
The silence stretched. Strange. Soft. Not uncomfortable — just… heavy.
Riley shifted again. "Sleep beside me."
Ryan choked. "What?"
She patted the empty space on the bed. "Come on. I won't bite."
"No."
"Ryan."
"No."
"Pleaaaase?"
"Absolutely not."
Her lips curved. "You're scared."
He scoffed. "Scared? Of you? Don't be ridiculous."
"Then prove it," she challenged, tilting her head.
He dragged a hand down his face. "You're impossible."
"And you're boring," she countered.
He glared. She smiled.
And somehow, that was what made him give up.
He exhaled, defeated. "Fine. I'll stay. But I'm not lying on the bed."
"You're such an old man."
"I'm older, not old," he snapped.
"Same thing," she said sweetly.
He groaned again.
---
Later that night, the room grew quiet.
Machines beeped softly.
The hallway lights dimmed.
A nurse dropped by, adjusted Riley's IV, and left. When the door clicked shut, Riley turned toward Ryan again.
"Are you comfortable?"
"I'm in a plastic chair," he said. "Take a wild guess."
She laughed softly and scooted to one side of the bed.
"There's space here, you know."
"No."
She rolled her eyes, clearly amused by his stubbornness.
"Fine," she mumbled, closing her eyes. "But you'll get tired eventually."
He didn't respond.
But he was watching her now.
Noticing how her breathing softened as she drifted toward sleep.
Noticing how small she looked in the hospital gown.
Noticing how bruised her arms were from the accident.
He didn't want to care.
But he did.
And he hated himself for it.
---
Around midnight, she stirred.
"Ryan?"
He sighed. "What now?"
"I can't sleep."
"Try harder."
"I'm scared," she whispered.
That made his chest tighten.
Her voice was so small.
So honest.
So unlike her usual teasing.
He stood before he could think, walked to her bedside, and adjusted the blanket over her.
Her fingers brushed his wrist.
He froze.
She looked up at him with eyes so soft, so vulnerable, he felt something crack inside.
"Stay close," she breathed.
His jaw clenched. "Riley—"
"Please."
He hated that word in her voice.
Because it always worked.
He inhaled slowly, heavily, then leaned against the side of the bed, close enough for her to relax, but far enough for him to pretend it meant nothing.
"Fine," he murmured. "Go to sleep."
She smiled.
And slowly… she drifted off, her breathing steadying.
Ryan watched her for a second — one dangerous second too long — then turned away quickly, sitting back in the chair and forcing himself to look anywhere else thinking if he should really stay or leave .
But he stayed.
He didn't leave.
He never really had the guts to leave her.
Not now
--