Morning crept into the hospital room slowly, pale light filtering through the narrow window. Ramona hadn't slept. She sat stiffly in the chair beside Sly's bed, her eyes heavy, her body aching from stillness. The steady rhythm of the machines had become familiar, almost cruel in its consistency. He was alive—but unreachable.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Ramona looked up just as the door opened and Sly's grandparents stepped inside. His grandfather entered first, tall despite his age, his face set with concern held tightly in check. His wife followed, quieter, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
Ramona stood immediately. "Good morning," she said softly.
His grandfather nodded. "How is he?"
"He's stable," Ramona replied. "The doctors say the coma is necessary for now. His right leg is badly broken, but they're monitoring everything closely."
His grandmother's eyes drifted to the bed, to the bruises on Sly's face, the cast, the tubes. She inhaled sharply but said nothing, only stepped closer and rested her hand gently on the mattress near his arm.
For a moment, no one spoke. The room felt heavy with unasked questions.
Finally, his grandfather turned to Ramona. "You were with him last night?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I was the last person he called. I stayed."
That was enough to confirm what he already suspected. He didn't accuse her. He didn't raise his voice. His disappointment was quieter, heavier than anger.
"I appreciate you being here," he said after a pause. "But we'll take over now."
Ramona swallowed. "Of course. I just wanted to make sure he wasn't alone."
She gathered her things slowly, casting one last look at Sly. His face was calm in sleep, untouched by the turmoil that had brought him there. Guilt settled deep in her chest, heavier than it had been all night.
At the door, she stopped. "Please… tell him I came," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His grandmother met her eyes. "That will be up to him," she replied gently.
Ramona nodded, accepting the truth in those words. She stepped out into the hallway, the door closing softly behind her. For the first time since the club, since the betrayal, since the crash, she was truly alone—with nothing left to distract her from the weight of what she had done.The first thing Sly felt was weight. Heavy. Crushing. His body refused to answer him, as though it no longer belonged to him. Sounds reached him in fragments—the distant beeping of machines, murmured voices that faded before he could grasp their meaning.
Then came pain.
It flared sharply through his right side, radiating from his leg like fire beneath his skin. His brow twitched. His fingers curled ever so slightly. The monitor beside his bed reacted immediately, its rhythm shifting, faster now.
"Sly?" his grandmother's voice whispered, fragile with hope. "Can you hear me?"
His eyelids fluttered. Memory rushed in without mercy—Ramona's mansion, the open door, her name tearing from his throat, the sight that had shattered him. His chest tightened, his breath hitching.
Doctors moved quickly, calm but alert. "He's responding," one of them said. "It's early, but this is good."
Outside the room, Ramona stood frozen in the hallway, having returned the moment she heard the change in his condition. She watched through the glass as the doctors surrounded him, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. Hope rose—and immediately tangled with fear.
If he wakes… will he want to see me?
Inside, Sly's eyes finally opened, unfocused, glassy. He stared at the ceiling, disoriented, his breathing shallow. His grandfather leaned closer. "You're in the hospital, son. You had an accident. You're safe."
Sly swallowed with difficulty. His throat felt raw. "My leg…" he whispered.
"It's broken," his grandfather answered honestly. "But you're alive."
Sly closed his eyes again, a single tear slipping down the side of his face—not from the pain, but from the memory he couldn't escape.
Outside, Ramona pressed her palm to the wall, tears blurring her vision. She didn't go in. She knew this moment wasn't hers to claim. Whatever happened next—whether forgiveness or final silence—would be Sly's choice.
And for the first time since the night everything fell apart, Ramona understood something clearly: waking up was only the beginning. Healing would be far harder.Sly woke fully sometime in the afternoon. The haze had lifted just enough for reality to settle in, heavy and unavoidable. His right leg was immobilized, wrapped and elevated, pain dulled by medication but still present—constant, reminding him he hadn't imagined the crash.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the machines breathe for him, before finally asking the question everyone had been avoiding.
"Ramona," he said quietly. "Is she here?"
His grandfather didn't answer right away. Then he nodded once. "She's been here since the night you were brought in."
Sly closed his eyes. The image returned instantly—too sharp, too vivid. His jaw tightened. "I want to see her."
The door opened slowly a few minutes later. Ramona stepped inside like she was entering a sacred place she no longer belonged to. She looked smaller somehow, stripped of the confidence she'd worn so easily before. Her eyes found his immediately.
"You're awake," she said, her voice breaking despite her effort to stay composed.
"So are you," Sly replied. His voice was calm, almost distant. That scared her more than shouting would have.
"I stayed," she said quickly. "I called your grandparents. I didn't leave."
"I know," he said. "That doesn't change what I saw."
The words landed hard. Ramona swallowed. "I never meant for it to end like this."
Sly let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Nobody ever does." He shifted slightly, pain flashing across his face. "You know what hurts the most? Not the leg. Not the crash."
She stepped closer, hopeful and terrified all at once.
"It's knowing I drove that car—your gift—thinking about you, still hoping we could fix things… while you were already gone."
Tears slipped freely now. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"I believe you," Sly said. "But belief doesn't undo betrayal."
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. Finally, he turned his head away from her, eyes fixed on the window.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," he said. "And I don't know if I ever will be."
Ramona nodded slowly, absorbing the truth she had feared. "I understand."
She lingered a moment longer, then turned toward the door. Before leaving, she looked back one last time—at the man she loved, broken not just in body but in trust.
Sly didn't look back.
And in that quiet space between them, both understood: some wounds heal slowly… and some leave scars no apology can erase.