Cade:
The drive back to the hospital was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels easy, but the type that hums beneath your ribs and makes you want to break something just to hear the sound.
Rain streaked the windshield in thin, tired lines. Riley sat turned toward the window, her hands folded in her lap, eyes tracing the blur of passing lights. Every now and then, her reflection caught in the glass — soft, haunted — like she was halfway gone already.
She hadn't said much since we left.
I didn't push it.
Some things don't need words. Some things are just felt — like the weight sitting in her chest, the way she bit the inside of her lip when she thought I wasn't looking, or the way her shoulders tensed when we passed the turnoff for her brother's place.
When the hospital lights came in
