The CT technician, a man in his late thirties with gentle eyes and a steady presence, wheeled Ariel into the quiet, fluorescent-lit suite. The walls felt close, humming with the low, constant thrum of machinery. He parked her beside the table and crouched to her level, his tone careful but kind.

  “All right, Miss McIntyre,” he said, preparing a small tray, “I’m going to inject a contrast dye to help us see your lungs more clearly. It might feel warm, maybe like a flush spreading through you. Some people say it’s like you’ve wet yourself, but I promise, you haven’t.”

  Ariel managed a tired, crooked smile. “Noted. Warm tingle, not disaster.”

  He grinned, swabbing her arm and finding the vein with practiced ease. “You’ll only be in the scanner for a few minutes. I’ll talk to you over the intercom, and this...” He pointed to the panic button beside her hand, “...is yours if you need to stop.”

  Ariel nodded, then turned her head toward the thick window of the control room. Holly stood behind the glass, her face pressed close, worry etched into every line. Her jaw was set, and her hand gripped the metal ledge so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Ariel watched the way Holly’s foot tapped restlessly, the small shift of her shoulders as if she might burst through the glass at any second.

  She tried to sit a little straighter, to muster something brave in her posture, and offered Holly the softest smile she could manage. Holly met her gaze, searching, then smiled back: Tremulous, hopeful. Her hand didn’t loosen on the sill.

  See? I’m okay. Ariel mouthed, and she hoped Holly could read it. She hoped the smile carried across the air between them.

  The tech helped her transfer onto the hard table. Ariel’s legs dangled awkwardly until she swung them up, and the technician tucked a thin blanket around her knees. The CT machine waited, all smooth curves and cold indifference. Ariel lay back and tried not to flinch as the table shuddered beneath her.

  The machine’s mouth yawned open, swallowing her into a circle of harsh white light.

  Click.

  Whirr.

  Click.

  The machine pulsed and thrummed, a mechanical rhythm deep enough to rattle her bones. Ariel closed her eyes. For one breath, maybe two, panic threatened to climb up her throat. The mechanical racket became the crackle of burning timber, the deep groan of beams falling overhead. She could almost smell the smoke again, taste it in the back of her mouth. Her breath hitched.

  Five things I can feel, she repeated to herself, running through the grounding exercise. Cold beneath her hips. The pressure of the IV tape on her arm. The itchy edge of the blanket. The strange, liquid weight of the dye in her veins. Her heart thudding in her chest.

  Four things I can see...

  Lights on the ceiling. The rim of the panic button. A faint red glow from a standby lamp. The intercom speaker, small and gray and silent.

  She forced a slow inhale, then exhale. She didn’t need the rest of the list. It was enough to remind her: she was here, now, not trapped. Not alone.

  Through the glass, Holly stood motionless. Ariel’s gaze drifted, even with her eyes half-shut. She caught every detail. The crease between Holly’s brows, the anxious tap of her shoe, the way she seemed to hold herself back from reaching out. It struck Ariel suddenly that Holly looked smaller in her worry, somehow folded in on herself, and she wanted more than anything to soothe her, to break through the barrier of glass and distance.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The scan passed in a blur of sound and sensation. Then, silence. The table eased her out of the machine, blinking under the bright overhead lights. She was still, lips pressed tight, her body exhausted from the effort of staying calm.

  The tech returned, gentle as before, and wrapped her in a warm blanket. “You did great,” he said, guiding her back to the wheelchair. “We’ll get the images over to your doctor as soon as we can.”

  But Ariel’s focus was already on the window, searching for Holly’s eyes.

  A moment later, Holly entered the room, moving quickly to kneel in front of Ariel’s chair. Ariel saw it all—the faint glossiness in Holly’s eyes, the tightness around her mouth, the desperate hope barely kept in check. Yet beneath it was pride. Holly reached for her hand and squeezed gently.

  “You good?” Holly asked, voice soft.

  Ariel let out a breath and gave a half-shrug. “I’ve had worse.”

  Holly grinned, but it trembled. “Don’t make me list them all. I’ll embarrass you in front of the nice tech.”

  Ariel’s smile widened. “You’re a menace.”

  “Only for you.”

  They lingered, heads close, until the tech returned with the printout for the attending physician. Holly rose and wheeled Ariel out into the corridor, her grip on the handles careful but firm.

  Back in the room, Ariel eased herself onto the bed with Holly’s help. There was still an ache in her lungs, a dull reminder of the fire, but it was softer now. Like a bruise, not a wound. As Holly fussed with her blanket and tucked the junimo plush at her side, Ariel reached for her hand and squeezed it, gentle and sure.

  She didn’t wait for Holly to speak. Instead, she launched into a string of observations, her voice just a little brighter than before. “You know, I barely coughed at all on the way back. Not once. Even just getting from the scanner to the chair felt… easy. I think the breathing exercises are helping.”

  She saw Holly blink, startled by the sudden flood of words, so Ariel pushed on, her tone deliberately light. “And my chest doesn’t hurt the same way it did yesterday. Yesterday, I felt like my ribs were made of glass. Now it’s more like rubber bands. Stiff, but they bend. I haven’t even needed pain meds since this morning.”

  Ariel let her fingers rest against Holly’s, glancing down at the way their hands fit together. “It’s weird, but even my muscles aren’t as heavy today. I sat up all by myself this morning. Didn’t even realize it until the nurse pointed it out. I think my body is finally getting the memo that we’re on the mend.”

  She chanced a glance up at Holly, offering a crooked little grin. “Honestly, I feel like I could get up and do laps around the hallway right now, if the nurses would let me.”

  A small, watery laugh escaped Holly at that, her posture easing just a little.

  “And I think I can finally taste things again,” Ariel added, reaching over to poke at the cup of water on the tray. “Well...at least as much as hospital water lets you. Next step, actual tea. Maybe something sweet. I’m holding out hope.”

  She lingered in this hopeful list, letting each small victory hang in the air like a lifeline. Her goal was clear: if she could fill the room with signs of progress, maybe Holly would see them too. Maybe she would finally let herself believe it was getting better.

  Ariel squeezed Holly’s hand a little tighter, giving her a look full of playful challenge and affection. “See? I’m practically ready to break out of here. You might have to hold me down.”

  For a moment, there was quiet. Just the low hum of machines, the gentle city light drifting in through the window. Ariel watched Holly’s face closely, hoping to see the worry fade, even if only for a heartbeat.

  When Holly finally smiled, it was real. Tired, but real.

  Ariel breathed easier, her heart lighter for it.

  “I think I’m going to be okay,” Ariel said, letting the words hang.

  She took in every detail of Holly: the rumpled hoodie, the tangled hair, the old café name tag still clipped to her zipper. The lines around her eyes had deepened, and her smile wavered.

  Ariel squeezed her hand again, steady and sure. “I know I scared you. But I’m here.”

  “You almost weren’t,” Holly whispered. The words were raw, barely formed.

  Ariel didn’t flinch away. “But I am. Because of you.”

  Holly’s shoulders finally slumped. She leaned in and pressed a trembling kiss to Ariel’s temple, letting her cheek rest in soft red hair.

  “I keep thinking how close it was,” Holly whispered, her voice splintering. “And how helpless I felt.”

  Ariel tilted her head, pressing her forehead to Holly’s. “You don’t have to carry all of that. You got me out. I don’t remember the ambulance, but I remember your voice. I remember hearing you call for me.”

  Holly’s breath hitched, but she smiled. Cracked and tearful, but genuine.

  “You were the first thing I heard when I came back,” Ariel whispered.

  They sat like that, foreheads touching, hands twined together with the junimo plush pressed close between them. The world outside faded to a soft, forgiving light, and for a few quiet minutes, everything felt possible again.

  In that hush, Ariel’s steady words slipped through the quiet like a promise. Not just reassurance, but proof. She was watching Holly, too. She always would.