A heart rate monitor lets out quiet beep beeps. An IV is hooked in my vein, connected to bags of fluid, and I ended up asking Farrow what the nurse clipped to my finger: a pulse oximeter.

I’ve been dazed for a while.

Maybe since I was put on a stretcher and wheeled into an ambulance and brought to Philadelphia General.

I think about how I’ve been stalked, threatened bodily harm and death. How I’ve crashed my motorcycle dozens of times, back-flipped into ravines, skydived, wiped out on a snowboard, eaten pavement after skateboard tricks, swam in strong ocean currents, and after all these things, all this damn time, I’ve never been afraid to die. And then tonight.

I was afraid.

I was fucking terrified.

My mortality, my fragile life, just crashed against me, and I remember that I’m only twenty-two. I remember that I can’t control the direction of anything, and I’m a passenger to the universe—but God, this ride can’t end for me. Not here, not now.

I wasn’t ready.

I’m not ready.

I begged and pleaded to receive one more minute with Farrow. I’d been surrounded by the love of family for twenty-two years, but I didn’t even get a full year with the love of another man, a companion, a soul mate—and maybe I was being selfish.

Asking for more when I’d been given so much already.

But then I thought about how he never had a family that really loved him for him. And I thought, if not for me, don’t do this to him. Don’t gut him.

So I’m not returning this second chance, this extra time. Maybe it’s why I can’t stop staring at him now.

Then again, my brain has always been obsessed. I’m pretty sure he knows that too.

“Aren’t you supposed to be reading to me?” I ask Farrow as he clutches a paperback in one hand, my paperback, and flips a page. “You know, out loud.” I sit up as best I can on the firm hospital bed.

Farrow has claimed a seat at the end of my bed.

My bare legs stretch over his lap. One of his inked hands moves up and down my leg, settling on my kneecap for a few seconds before moving again.

“I’m saving you from a dull read, wolf scout.” He flips another page.

He’d say everything on this planet is a dull read because he rarely reads, and he already folded the cover and dog-earred the pages just to irritate me.

“I’ve read that philosophy book before,” I tell him.

His eyes flit to me, a spark of amusement in them. “I know. You have a hard-on for Cicero. There are little highlight marks and scribbles on basically every line.”

I almost smile, and I lick my dry lips. “Not every fucking line.”

He flashes the page he’s on. It’s annotated to hell and back.

“Fine,” I concede. “I like Cicero.” I lie on top of the hospital sheets, my throbbing right arm secured in a loose sling. A thin blue hospital gown reaches my thighs and hides the reddish-bluish bruises that mar my abs and chest.

My sore body thuds in a harsh rhythm like I’ve been run over a billion-and-one times, but I have the best distraction in front of me.

“He loves Cicero,” Farrow repeats as he skims the book.

“Likes,” I correct.

His biceps look ripped in a Yale T-shirt, but the crew-neck conceals the symmetrical pirate ships on his collarbones and inked skull on his sternum. He said he gave Winona his black button-down for her busted lip, so he ended up borrowing the shirt from Oscar’s gym bag.

Farrow flips another page. His speed-reading is fucking annoying.

Another page turns.

More seriously, he asks me, “Why do you like him?”

“You jealous?” I try my hand at teasing my boyfriend.

His brows slowly lift at me like I’m the geekiest fucking geek that ever did geek. “Of a dead Roman philosopher?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” he says like I’ve lost my mind. “There’s no competition living or dead.” He skims the next page.

I try to shift my arm, but pain shoots up my shoulder. I bite down and stay still, and if Farrow can tell I’m hurting, he doesn’t nag me.

Thank God.

I already have two enormously worried parents who stopped by about fifteen minutes ago. My mom brought a towering stack of my favorite comics and philosophy texts. To help distract me from the pain while I wait for news about surgery on my collarbone.

She also gave Farrow a tight hug and had to “air hug” me. And my dad—he was choked up, glassy-eyed. They’re just grateful I’m alive. The paramedics told them that if Farrow didn’t release air from my lungs, I probably would’ve died before they arrived.

But if you know my dad at all, he’s a hard sell. Saving my life is like half-a-brownie point. For my mom, Farrow earned every brownie that ever existed in every universe.

I watch my boyfriend flip another page. “Cicero is timeless,” I tell him, trying to explain what’s always hard for me: why do I like x, y, z? I have too many reasons, and they all jumble together at once. “…a lot of thinkers and theorists derive from his ideas and philosophy.” I pause. “He wasn’t perfect, but he fought against a Roman dictatorship…and I think he would’ve been Plato’s ideal philosopher.”

Farrow raises the book somewhat, just to read, “‘However short your life may be, it will still be long enough to live honestly and decently.’” He looks at me. “Sounds like you.”

“Maybe,” I say, thinking hard, “but what if I want to live longer at the risk of being less decent?”

Farrow sucks in a breath, his hand stopping on my knee again. “You’re posing that philosophical question to the wrong man.”

“Why?” I try to sit up more.

“Because nine-times-out-of-ten, I’m going to tell you to take any risk, and if it means you’ll live longer, then there’s actually no debate.” Farrow flips a page, his eyes drifting between me and the book. Until he’s just looking at me. “Tonight shook you up a little bit.” It’s not a question.

He can see.

I nod. “All I know is that I know nothing, and I’m alright with that as long as you’re in my life—and that’s fucking hard for me to admit. That I’m clueless about where I go from here and what the fuck I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter as much as you matter to me. And I’m rambling…”

His lips curve upward, and he waves me on. “Keep going.”

“You,” I retort dryly.

He rolls his eyes and stares at the ceiling before his gaze falls on me. “In medicine, I’ve met a lot of death, and it’s made me appreciate the present and not regret or fixate on the could’ve beens. But if something happened to you tonight and you became a could’ve been, it would’ve crushed me for the rest of my life.” His chest rises in a bigger breath, and he finishes with, “And all I know is that I know everything.”

I blink slowly. “Give me my book so I can throw it at you.”

Farrow smiles. “Let me think about that.” He doesn’t think about it and he keeps my paperback right in his hand. But his other hand leaves my knee and crawls up my thigh.

I like that. Too damn much.

My phone rings near my side. Every person in my family has texted about a dozen times. I have plenty of new ones, especially from my siblings.

My dad said she tried to sneak into the car. Just so he’d have to bring her to the hospital. He caught her, so she’s grumpy and still at home. None of the parents want any of the kids on the road. At least not until the morning when the storm is supposed to die down.

My brother’s texts remind me about what I learned tonight. He’s been giving away his pills to the neighborhood kid. A truth that I clutch but can’t confront just yet. Not while I’m stuck in this hospital. This is something I need to talk to him about face-to-face. Everyone just assumed Winona and Ben drove to the orchestra hall to protest the auction, so no one knows about Xander.

I smile at Luna’s text. But the call isn’t from my siblings. It’s from my best friend.

I click speakerphone so Farrow can hear. “You all close yet?” I ask Janie.

“We’re still in terribly slow traffic,” she says.

I picture Jane packed in a car with Beckett, Luna, Thatcher, Quinn and Donnelly. All six are headed here from the orchestra hall.

“Be careful,” I tell her and shut my eyes for a second, pain radiating down my ribs.

“Updates?” she asks.

I open my eyes and stare at the closed door. “Sulli just got here with all the parents, about a half hour ago. She’s with Winona.” In the room across the hall. I try to squash the guilt because it’s my job to protect those girls. Uncle Ryke…has to hate me.

I hate myself for putting her in that much danger. For putting Ben in danger.

“She’s fine,” Farrow says and reaches for a tin of chocolates on a nearby tray table.

“Her lip is being stitched up,” I correct. “She’s not fine.”

“She’ll survive,” Farrow says easily.

Jane interjects, “I’ve already spoken to Sulli.”

I try to sit up again, my muscles screaming. So I stop. “Ben is in another room. My dad said his concussion is mild, and I think Charlie is getting surgery on his leg soon—”

“I meant updates about you,” Jane says. “I’ve talked to my brothers and my parents already, too.”

I frown, a little hurt. “Tu m'as appelé en dernier?” You called me last?

Jane takes an audible breath, upset that I think that. “Not because I wanted to. Your mom said I should give you some time alone with your one true pairing before I call.”

Farrow is laughing at my mom’s wordage.

My neck heats.

Jesus. My mom loving us together plays too damn well into Farrow’s hand, and I lose every round when we go head-to-head.

“My mom needs to take it easy,” I tell Jane.

“Never. Aunt Lily loves love.”

“She can love my love ten billion times less in front of my boyfriend. That’d be perfect.” I can almost feel Jane smiling on the other end. And I can also feel it fade in the quiet.

“Moffy, please tell me how you are,” she whispers and when I don’t answer right away, she adds, “I hate that I’m not there yet.” In the background, I catch Thatcher saying that he’ll take a back route. He must be driving.

I rake my hair with my left hand, which tugs the IV tubes. “I’m still waiting for the surgeon to check the X-Rays.”

“You need surgery?”

“I’m not sure—”

“He needs surgery,” Farrow cuts in with that matter-of-fact voice, husky but soothing. Gravel tied in silk.

I watch him open the lid to the tin and inspect a chocolate. I tell him, “There’s a zero percent chance you know that just by looking.”

He unwraps a truffle, and I hone in on how his fingers peel the red foil. Christ. I need to stop being in love with how he moves.

Farrow is smiling a self-satisfied smile. Beyond human comprehension. “There’s a hundred percent chance I know you fractured your clavicle, wolf scout.” He pops the chocolate in his mouth.

I make a face. “Why do you have to call it a clavicle?”

He chews slowly, brows rising. “Because that’s what it’s called.”

“It’s called a fucking collarbone.”

“Man, it’s the same exact thing, but only one pisses you off, so I chose that one.” His smile stretches as irritation scrunches my face.

Concern encases Jane’s voice as she asks, “Is he in pain, Farrow?”

“So much,” I answer sarcastically. “Save me, Janie.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Jane says, very serious. “Farrow? How is he?” She’s really worried about me, and I feel badly for teasing.

Farrow unwraps another truffle and instead of sweeping my body for signs of pain, he just holds my gaze. “Maximoff is stubborn. Not a new malady.”

I give him a look. “If stubbornness is a sickness, then you suffer from it too.”

His brows spike. “Never said I didn’t, and that’s cute that you want me to share your sickness.”

Don’t smile. “I didn’t say that.”

“Sure.” Keeping his mouth closed, his lips rise as he chews another chocolate.

I am in pain, but he’s making me forget what hurts. A perk to having a brain that pretty much cums over his mere presence.

I raise my phone to my mouth. “Jane,” I say. “I didn’t put you on speakerphone so you’d be more worried. I’m alright.”

I can’t imagine what crossed her mind when she heard we’d been in a car crash. Two of her brothers, her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend, and her little cousin. I can’t imagine what any of our family was thinking.

“Have you looked at any news articles about the accident?” she asks.

“Not yet.” I’ve been prolonging that, but I’m sure the crash made headlines. I’ve actually tried not to check social media too much lately. Not since I’ve been public with Farrow.

Muffled voices grow louder on Jane’s end. “Sorry…hold on, we’re solving a mini-directional crisis. Too many people in this car believe they know Philly roads the best.”

I keep her on the line, but I let her deal with the directions. And I catch Farrow peeling a third chocolate.

“Are you really going to eat all my chocolate?” I wonder. Aunt Daisy brought the heart-shaped tin as a get well soon thing. She says chocolate candy is second best to chocolate cake.

“You can’t eat anything before surgery,” he reminds me. “I’m doing you a favor. Less temptation, wolf scout.” He pops the third one in his mouth.

“It’s working. You’re making them look disgusting.”

“Must be why you keep watching me eat them,” he says, one-upping me with absolute ease.

Goddammit. “I wasn’t,” I lie.

“And there goes your honesty merit badge.”

I watch him put aside the tin, and he uncaps a permanent marker with his teeth. His brown eyes flit to the machines next to the bed. Numbers scroll over the screen, lines bounce up and down, and I can barely make sense of it.

But he can.

As quickly as Farrow looked, he’s back on course. His large hand runs from my knee down to my ankle, the touch full of hot affection, and he holds my ankle with strength but tenderness that pools warmth inside of me.

Farrow starts scribbling something on top of my left foot.

“That better not say fuck me,” I tell him.

Farrow stops writing, and his gaze lifts to mine, all humor in his eyes. He blows out the cap from his mouth. “If I were going to write fuck me, it wouldn’t be on your foot.” With another thought, his smile widens in near laughter. “Unless…you want me to fuck your foot.”

“Fuck off,” I say, about to reclaim my leg, but his grip tightens. That, I like even more.

I crane my neck and catch sight of the scrawled letters.

NOT THIS FOOT

My brows pull together as I stare at him like he’s flown to the garbage planet Sakaar. “If I’m even having surgery, you do realize it’s nowhere near my foot?”

“Can’t be too careful,” he says casually and moves onto my calf. “That’s rule number one in the Wolf Scout Handbook. In case you’ve forgotten your own rules.” He pulls back to view his handiwork.

NOT THIS LEG is even bigger.

Dear World, why am I smiling? Best Regards, a smiling human.

“I’m back,” Jane says with a giant breath. “So, we have a lot to discuss when I arrive. Like how you were bought by a porn star.”

Just as the words porn star boom in the air, the door opens to my hospital room—and I’m pretty positive the doctor just heard that.

I’m repping the Hale Curse hard tonight.

I lift the phone to my mouth again. “Jane, the doctor just got here.”

“Good luck, old chap.”

“À tout à l’heure, ma moitié.” See you soon, my other half.

I hang up, and I realize Farrow has stopped writing on my leg. His focus drills into the young doctor, and before I can speak, Farrow tells him, “You’re in the wrong room.”

Farrow knows this doctor.

It’s my first thought. The doctor actively disregards Farrow, his attention only on me.

He must be in his late twenties, exceptionally tall with swept-back auburn hair that curls beneath his ears. He looks like he could audition to play Bill Weasley in Harry Potter.

You know, the oldest, hottest Weasley.

He’s not in scrubs like the ER doctors and nurses I’ve met tonight. All of which had to sign NDAs. Underneath his white coat, a navy geometric-printed shirt is tucked in charcoal slacks.

I strain my eyes to read the stitching on his coat, but I can only make out the MD.

The doctor starts approaching the bed. “I’m Dr…” His voice dies out as Farrow slides my legs off his lap and stands up.

My boyfriend steals the chart out of Bill Weasley’s grip. Then he sits on the bed’s edge and flips through the clipboard papers like nothing just happened.

Bill Weasley casts a cutting glare at Farrow.

“Maximoff,” Farrow says, at ease as he skims my chart, “meet Rowin Hart.” He looks directly at me, and he adds, “My ex.”

What.

The…