The emergency vehicle idled under flashing red and blue lights, its engine rumbling like a restless heartbeat. Inside, paramedics moved with rehearsed urgency—replacing bandages, checking vital signs, and murmuring reassurances into their radios. The smell of antiseptic and cold metal filled the cramped space.
Frederick burst from the crowd, his coat flapping behind him like a dark banner. Every step throbbed in his chest, each breath a jagged reminder of the storm's fury. His hands shook so violently he almost couldn't grip the door handle.
He yanked the side door open and ducked into the vehicle. Paramedic Elena shot him a brief, professional nod as she finished adjusting Dahlia's IV line. Her eyes softened when she saw Frederick's ashen face; no words were needed.
Dahlia lay semi-reclined on the stretcher, her hair damp against the thin hospital blanket. Her arm was splinted stiffly, dark bruises bleeding through the gauze. When she sensed movement, her eyes fluttered open—wide, fragile, and alight with fearful hope.
"Frederick…" Her voice was a cracked whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter her. He dropped to his knees beside her, pressing a trembling hand against her uninjured one. "I'm here," he choked out, the words thick with relief and grief.
Tears pooled in Dahlia's eyes as she tried to sit up, but a gentle pressure from Elena guided her back. "Easy, Mrs. Virell," the paramedic soothed. Frederick's other hand hovered above Dahlia's forehead, uncertain if he should touch or merely watch her breath steady.
A sudden jolt on the road rattled the car, and Frederick's heart lurched with it. He glanced at the blinking monitor beside Dahlia—her pulse was strong, steady. He closed his eyes for an instant, willing himself not to break down completely.
Frederick leaned closer, voice hushed. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner. I swear, I'll never leave you like that again." Dahlia's lips quivered into a faint, grateful smile.
---
Callum stepped gingerly from the edge of the collapsed stairwell, his shoulder harness chafing, spine sore from strain. Rescuers waved him toward the second ambulance, its doors swung open like arms waiting for the exhausted.
But something made him hesitate.
Across the landing, a blur moved fast—a shadow of urgency slicing through the medics. Frederick. His coat snapped behind him as he surged toward the first emergency vehicle where Dahlia lay bundled in gauze and silence.
Callum froze mid-step.
He watched Frederick reach her, trembling, almost reckless, his hand flying to the ambulance door. No formality. No caution. Just raw desperation. In an instant, Frederick was kneeling beside her, cupping her face, his fingers fluttering like he wasn't sure where it hurt more—her skin or his heart.
Callum couldn't hear their voices from a distance, but he saw Dahlia's eyes widen, saw her lips part in recognition. Frederick's forehead bent to hers, fragile and reverent, as if the touch itself was a prayer he'd been afraid to make.
And suddenly, Callum's breath steadied.
No rush of envy. No storm of memory. Just stillness.
There was something deeply human in watching another man fight for the person he loved—not perfectly, but deeply. Something that Callum understood. That gesture, that collision of grief and devotion—it stitched together the wound inside him he'd been hiding since he held Dahlia's trembling hand.
Marcus called his name softly. Callum turned toward the second ambulance again.
His heart, which had been pounding for hours, slowly found rhythm.
---
The ambulance rumbled down the cracked pavement, its suspension creaking with each bend. Callum sat half-reclined against the cushioned stretcher, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The cervical collar kept his chin stiff, but his eyes remained steady—focused on nothing and everything.
Across from him, Marcus leaned back in the jump seat, arms loosely crossed, helmet resting between his knees. For a long while, silence filled the space. Only the soft beeping of the monitor and the occasional dispatch chatter broke the stillness.
Callum hadn't said much since climbing in.
Marcus watched him—watched how his gaze shifted to the window every few seconds, how his fingers subtly tapped the stretcher's edge like his thoughts had rhythm.
And outside, before they'd left, Marcus had seen it.
Frederick's arrival.
That rush of devotion, that whispered apology, that forehead pressed against Dahlia's brow like penance. It had hit Marcus too—soft and sharp at the same time. Enough to plant a question in his chest he could no longer ignore.
He tilted his head slightly. "You saw him," Marcus said.
Callum didn't answer. He kept watching the amber lights flicker against the walls of passing buildings.
Marcus tried again. Softer. "Frederick... he ran like a man about to lose his world."
Callum shifted, the muscles in his jaw pulling tight. "Yeah," he muttered. "I saw."
Marcus nodded slowly. "And what did you feel?"
Callum's breath wavered. He didn't meet Marcus's eyes. "Relief," he admitted. "Maybe... clarity. Or something like it."
Marcus leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "Is she still in your chest?" he asked—not accusing, not prying. Just honest.
Callum blinked hard and turned away, letting the words land.
"She never left," he whispered. "And... she will always stay."
Marcus sat with that for a moment. Then he cracked a half-smile. "That was deep." He gently tapped the edge of Callum's stretcher. "Me, I'd just say you've got a ghost with perfume and great cheekbones living rent-free in your ribcage."
Callum barked a laugh despite himself, and the sound startled them both. For the first time in hours, the tension in his shoulders loosened just slightly.
Marcus offered a grin. "Don't worry. I won't tell Seraphine. Not unless I'm offered cake and cash."
Callum smiled faintly, eyes turning serious again. "It's not about choosing one over the other. It's about knowing who I should be."
Marcus nodded, sobered. "Thus, what'll you do now?"
Callum let out a long breath. "I'll do what a husband should do."
Outside, the ambulance slowed. They were near the hospital now. Inside the cabin, that fleeting sense of safety wrapped the two men like an old blanket—the kind frayed with memory and friendship.
Marcus reached out and fist-bumped Callum's knee gently. "Whatever you do," he said, "just don't shatter my sister. Though she is trained as a man, she is still our treasured vulnerability."
Callum didn't reply right away.
But when he did, it was quiet and sure.
"I will never put her last."