Mateo drove like the road owed him something.
Red lights blurred past. His hands shook on the wheel, knuckles white, breath uneven. Bambi lay slack in the passenger seat, her head tilted wrong, her skin too still. Every bump sent a spike of panic through him.
"Don't do this," he muttered. "Don't you dare."
Fear coiled tight in his chest—but it wasn't pure. It tangled with calculation, with loss measured in numbers and habits. If she died, everything unraveled. The money. The control. The life he'd stitched together around her grief.
And still—beneath all of it—something else pulsed. Something rawer. The thought of the house without her in it felt… hollow.
He screeched into the hospital lot.
"She's been hit by a car," he said fast. "She needs help. Now."
They moved quickly. A gurney. Bright lights. Questions fired at him. Mateo answered smoothly, automatically. He was good at this. Crisis sharpened him.
When the doors swallowed her, he stood alone with shaking hands and nowhere to put them.
He paced. Replayed the moment she'd run. Her face twisted with betrayal. The words she'd thrown at him like glass.
You're still talking to him.
"She was drunk," he whispered. "She didn't mean it."
He said it until it sounded true.
Hours later, a nurse called his name.
"She's awake."
Mateo smoothed his jacket. Fixed his face.
Bambi woke to white.
Too much white.
Pain bloomed in her body like a slow explosion. Machines beeped. Her mouth was dry. Her head throbbed.
She turned.
Mateo was there.
Panic surged instantly. Her heart rate spiked. The monitor complained. She gasped for air, vision swimming.
"No," she rasped. "Why are you here?"
Mateo stepped closer, palms open. "Easy. You're safe."
"Why didn't you leave?" Her voice cracked. "Why are you still here?"
"Because I love you," he said softly. "Because you needed me."
Memory crashed back in jagged pieces—his phone, the messages, the way he'd looked at her when she found them.
"Get out," she said suddenly. "Please."
Mateo hesitated. Just long enough to look wounded.
Then he nodded. "Okay. I'll give you space."
He brushed her hair back gently. Too gently. "I'll grab you food. I'll be right outside."
The door closed.
Bambi stared at it, chest heaving. Her hands shook under the blanket. She hated the relief she felt. Hated herself for still wanting him near.
Outside, Mateo pulled out his phone.
"She's alive," he said when the call connected. "Yes. She's confused."
A pause.
"No," he continued quietly. "She doesn't remember everything."
Another pause.
"Yes," he said. "I'll fix it."
He bought food she wouldn't eat. Practiced his tone while the vending machine hummed.
When he returned, his concern was perfect.
"You scared me," he said, sitting beside her. "You really scared me."
Bambi stared at the blanket. "I lost control."
Mateo nodded sympathetically. "You've been carrying too much."
"I shouldn't have run," she whispered.
"No," he agreed gently. "You shouldn't have."
Guilt slid into place like it always did.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For crashing out."
Mateo squeezed her hand. "I forgive you."
Her phone buzzed.
She froze.
An unknown number.
The message was short.
He told her you were dead. Ask Mateo where he sleeps when he says he's 'working'.
Bambi's breath hitched.
Mateo was still holding her hand, thumb stroking her skin like reassurance.
Suddenly, the hospital room felt smaller.
And for the first time since waking up, Bambi understood—
the accident hadn't been the first thing Mateo lied about.
It had just been the one she survived.