Page 72 of Saddle and Scent
Like love was just another word for coming home.
And then it all went downhill.
The memory shifts, darkens, and I try to push it away, to sink back into the peaceful darkness where nothing hurts and no one leaves and sixteen-year-old dreams don't curdle into seventeen-year-old nightmares.
But even in sleep, even cushioned by fever and exhaustion, the pain finds me.
The way they started pulling away, subtle at first, then more obvious.
The way conversations would stop when I entered a room.
The way they began finding excuses not to spend time together, not to include me in plans that had always been assumed to include all four of us.
The way they looked at me like I was a problem to be solved rather than a person to be loved.
The way everything that had felt permanent and inevitable suddenly felt fragile and conditional.
The way I started wondering what I'd done wrong, what I'd said or failed to say, what had changed in me that made them start treating me like a stranger.
I drift back to sleep again, seeking refuge in unconsciousness where the memories can't follow, where the hurt is muffled by layers of fever and medication and the persistent, gentle care of those magical hands with their cooling towels.
Time becomes fluid, meaningless.
I surface occasionally, just enough to register the ongoing comfort—fresh coolness against my skin, the soft murmur of voices in the background, the persistent scents that wrap around me like a security blanket.
Then I sink back down, letting the darkness carry me away from everything that hurts.
It's easier this way.
Safer.
No decisions to make, no walls to maintain, no careful distance to preserve.
Just floating, just being cared for, just existing in a space where nothing is required of me except healing.
The next time consciousness threatens to surface, I hear a female voice speaking. The tone is professional, confident, carrying the kind of authority that comes from knowledge and experience.
A doctor.
It has to be a doctor.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, letting them think I'm still unconscious. Something about the situation feels delicate, like information is being shared that I'm not supposed to hear, and my instinct is to gather intelligence before revealing that I'm awake.
"After checking all the bloodwork and her vital signs, she should be okay," the woman is saying. Her voice is crisp, no-nonsense, tinged with just enough warmth to suggest competence rather than coldness. "The heat stroke was severe, but we caught it in time. Her core temperature has stabilized, and her blood pressure is returning to normal ranges."
Relief floods through me, even as I maintain the pretense of sleep.
I'm okay.
Whatever happened—and the details are still fuzzy, fragmented by fever and unconsciousness—I'm going to be okay.
"I'm prescribing a few things that will help with the recovery from heat stroke," the doctor continues, and I can hear the rustle of paper, probably a prescription pad. "Electrolyte supplements, anti-inflammatory medication, and strict instructions for the next few days of rest. No strenuous activity, plenty of fluids, and absolutely no exposure to excessive heat."
"Understood," Callum's voice, low and serious in a way that makes my stomach flutter despite everything.
He's here.
They're all here, aren't they?
