Page 259 of Ruin My Life
“Because we won’t,” Damon confirms, ruffling Lee’s already wild hair. “Still—glad you’re not dead, brother.”
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth.
It’s strange. Just a few months ago, I had no one.
No one who knew my real name, let alone my scars. No one I’d ever allow to see me like this: broken open in a hospital bed, struggling just to sit up.
And yet… none of them are treating me like I’m some broken thing.
When I first woke up, sure—there were cautious glances, hushed checks to see if I could talk, move, breathe. But once they were sure I was really okay—reallymeagain—it was just this:
Laughter. Banter. Chaos wrapped around a sense of safety I thought I’d lost forever.
It reminds me of home.
OfAmie.
When she’d fall off her bike and scrape her knees, I’d rush to her side like she’d suffered a fatal wound. But if there were no tears, no bones poking through skin, I’d immediately start teasing her until she tackled me into the grass, threatening to swap my shampoo for Nair.
That was us. A rhythm equal parts protectiveness and torture. A language only siblings seem to master—where nobody else is allowed to so much asbreathewrong near you, but they themselves reserve the right to give you a beating if you blink too loudly.
Somehow, that’s exactly whatthisfeels like.
No, none of these burly, sharp-edged men would dare tackle me or call me something that’d make my mother shriek. But they’re not afraid to treat me like the sister they never had—teasing, testing, laughing, trusting me to take it.
Like they’ve carved out a place for me here. A space I didn’t even know I needed until I found myself fitting inside it like I was always meant to.
Afamily.
Not the one I was born into—
But the one I chose.
And maybe more importantly… the one that chose me back.
I know—god, I know—Amie would have adored them too.
As the guys keep trading barbs, Dahlia makes her way to my bedside. Her platinum blonde hair is scraped into a tight top-knot, but stray flyaways around her ears and the damp wisps at her neck betray just how long her day has been.
“Busy shift?” I ask, eyeing the scrawl she’s adding to my chart—checkmarks, timestamps, abbreviations I’ve come to recognize without even trying.
“In the ER?” She grins. “Always. We get nervous when it’s quiet—makes us wonder if the world’s ending.”
I huff a laugh, but it cuts short when a sudden commotion erupts in the hallway.
Fast footsteps echo off the tile—frantic, unannounced. The floor’s supposed to be locked down—Damon made sureof it—so the sound of security barking orders just beyond the window sends a jolt straight through my chest.
The air shifts. Tenses.
Monroe and Chavez are on edge instantly, hands hovering near the concealed weapons I know they always carry. Dahlia steps closer to my side, subtly placing herself between me and the door. Even Lee, still bound to his wheelchair, sits up straighter, like he’s ready to launch himself at whatever threat walks through that door.
But Damon—
Damon lifts one hand. Calm. Steady.Commanding.
Then he steps into the hallway alone.
The second he’s out of sight, the room goes silent—the thick and suffocating kind. My grip tightens in the bedsheets, knuckles blanching white. My mind races.
