Rain pattered relentlessly against the thin hospital window, a steady drum of gray against the muted light of early morning. It slipped down the glass in long rivulets, bending the shadows of the room into elongated shapes, streaking the fluorescent glow that hummed overhead.
The air smelled sharply of antiseptic, cold and clinical, tinged faintly with the metallic tang of old blood clinging stubbornly to the sheets and bandages. Somewhere down the hall, shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.
A cart rolled, its wheels whining softly, stopping and starting again, while a distant nurse whispered instructions that drifted through the corridors, half-carried by the hum of the fluorescent lights.
The quiet of Forks General Hospital was deceptive. It felt contained, insulated from the chaos that followed Aiden wherever he went.
It was a stark contrast to the city he had left behind, the endless roar of horns, tires screaming over slick asphalt, voices colliding and impossible to filter. Here, the small-town hospital held space, breathed slowly, and gave room for reflection. Pain had room to exist.
Aiden's eyes fluttered open to the dull gray light, heavy and reluctant. Every part of his body screamed, a chorus of pain that began in his ribs and radiated through his shoulder, down his left arm, into his fingers, and across his face.
The IV line tugged gently with each subtle movement, each drip a mechanical reminder of fragility. He winced, tasting the faint copper tang of blood, his lips cracked and dry. His face throbbed, swollen and bruised, a living map of the night's chaos.
His ribs felt raw and bruised, shoulder stiff and unyielding, arm heavy beneath the weight of bandages and cast.
The memory hit him in jagged fragments:
"Tyler's van barreling down the parking lot"
"Screaming tires"
"Bella froze in the middle of the road."
"Panic gripped him like a vice. And then, impossibly, Edward."
A blur of motion, faster than the eye could follow, stopping the van before it had a chance to strike her. Metal crumpled in ways Aiden knew were impossible. Bella's wide eyes, a mix of terror and relief, burned into his memory as Edward steadied her, unharmed, untouchable, inhuman. His chest froze in awe, disbelief mingling with fear. No human could move like that.
Then came the sequence of impacts replayed in excruciating clarity: the van struck him first, throwing him sideways across wet asphalt; the light post caught him next, cold metal biting into shoulder and ribs, scraping his face, twisting his arm in ways that made muscles scream; finally, the hood of a parked car slammed into him, violent and jarring, leaving him gasping, bruised, bleeding. Pain radiated through every nerve, deep and relentless, reminding him he was alive, but barely.
And then Rosalie. Kneeling beside him, her hand cold against his fevered skin, golden eyes steady and unwavering.
"Aiden, stay with me," she had said, calm, precise, holding him in a grip of presence that tethered him to the world. Her touch was shockingly cold against his burning pain, anchoring him as adrenaline coursed through his veins.
Aiden's gaze drifted upward, taking in the sterile ceiling tiles, faint water stains, subtle cracks. The quiet gave him space to remember other nights, other fights, other survival.
Aiden's mind drifted, caught in the haze of pain and IV drips, back to a dimly lit room months, or maybe years ago, when Mrs. P had patched him up after another brutal fight.
Her small frame moved confidently among the cluttered medical supplies, hands skilled and precise, the scent of antiseptic and lavender following her. She was not his mother, but she had always carried herself like one in these moments, firm, uncompromising, protective.
"You've done it again," she said, her accent threading through her words, French soft, Italian rolling at the edges.
"Look at you, blood, bruises, bones stretched too far. You cannot keep doing this, Aiden."
"I'll be fine," he muttered, wincing as she applied antiseptic to a deep cut on his shoulder.
"You will not be fine," she countered, eyes sharp. "You think because you survive, it makes it… acceptable. It does not. One day, it will kill you."
Aiden's jaw tightened. "I have a plan. I know what I'm doing."
She paused, placing her hands lightly on his shoulders, gaze intense. "Do you? Or are you just proving something to the world? Your father, may he rest, he lived like this. Always pushing, always bleeding, always proving he was untouchable. And he wasn't. And now… you risk the same fate."
Aiden's eyes flickered with a hint of guilt, but he said nothing. Pain and pride intertwined.
She sighed deeply, her hands hovering over his wounds. "I've loved and lost. My late husband… he was a fighter, fearless, beautiful in his youth. But he believed strength alone could save him. It did not. I watched him die in my arms, refusing to yield to something beyond his control. And I will not watch the same stubborn fire destroy you, Aiden."
Aiden swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing against him. "I… I have to do this. I can't stop. Not until I get what's mine."
Her voice softened, trembling slightly with emotion she rarely allowed herself. "Oh, Aiden… you remind me of him in ways I cannot ignore, and it terrifies me. He was young, foolish, angry, and I loved him. But I could not save him from himself."
Aiden's hand twitched against the bandages, conflicted. "I'll survive," he said firmly. "I always survive."
She pressed her palm briefly to his shoulder, a gesture of both authority and care.
"Maybe tonight. But the fire you carry inside, the one that refuses to rest… it will break you if you do not learn restraint. Remember his mistakes. Learn from them. Please."
Her hands lingered over the injuries a moment longer before she stood, taking a slow breath. "Live, Aiden. Be careful. And maybe… just sometimes, let someone else in. Don't make me fear for you the way I feared for him."
Aiden closed his eyes, the memory of her hands, her voice, the raw weight of her emotion pressing in his chest. She was not his mother. She never would be. But in that room, she had been the closest thing to a guiding light, a voice of reason amid the chaos, and he had clung to it even as he ignored her warnings.
A faint rustle caught his attention. Steve, half-slouched in the corner lounge chair, shifted and groaned. He had been attempting sleep, twisted into uncomfortable angles, arms draped over the armrest, one leg bent awkwardly. Each movement betrayed hours of restless worry. Aiden allowed a humorless smirk to pull at his lips.
"Don't get all sentimental," he muttered, voice hoarse, dry from blood and adrenaline.
Steve blinked, fully awake now, relief flooding his features. "Sentimental?" he echoed. "I'm not… I'm not sentimental."
"You were snoring like a bear an hour ago," Aiden teased. "I thought maybe you were dreaming about protecting me for once."
Steve's lips twitched, half a smile forming. "I was… I mean, you don't exactly make it easy to relax." He gestured vaguely to the monitor, the bruises, the bandages. "I just… seeing you like this, I—I failed you."
Aiden laughed, short and ragged. "Failed me? Steve, you were in a chair trying not to snap your back. You can't save me from everything, you know. Guardian angels don't cover every screw-up in life."
Steve looked away, jaw tight. "I could've done more. I should've—"
"You could've done nothing," Aiden interrupted.
"It wouldn't have changed a damn thing. Life's messy, chaotic. You survive by scrapping, by getting up when you're broken, by figuring out how to keep breathing. That's it."
He flexed his fingers slowly. "And… I'm still here. So, congratulations. You didn't completely fail."
Steve chuckled, tension easing slightly. "Congratulations… right. Thanks for that."
Aiden shifted again, wincing as pain flared across his ribs. "Don't start pitying me yet. I've got a long list of complaints and grievances ready. First: how did you not wake me sooner with all that snoring?"
Steve raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't want to bother you. You looked like you were in enough pain already."
"You moved enough to wake the dead," Aiden replied with a grim smirk. "Every fifteen minutes, adjusting, groaning, sighing, flopping. I thought you were auditioning for a horror film."
Steve laughed, low and guilty. "I—Okay, fine, maybe I did. But seriously, hearing that you hit that van… then the light post… then the hood of a car…" His voice faltered. "I don't think I've ever… I… I couldn't process it."
Aiden winced but allowed a small smirk. "Brutal. But hey, at least I didn't dent the car. Small victories, Steve. Small victories."
Steve's laughter faded into a sigh, shoulders heavy again.
"You've had… a hard life. And I wasn't there for so much of it. I wasn't there for your mother, for you. I failed. And it's always been chaotic with you, hasn't it? From the very start."
Aiden's eyes softened, pain still evident. "Yeah. Life's chaos. But you can't fix the past. You do what you can, or you die trying. That's it."
Steve leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. A memory pressed against him, a night with Aiden's mother, blurred by time, her face a mixture of Asian and Black features, beautiful, kind, and gone too soon. He remembered a conversation cut short, words left hanging, a feeling of helplessness that had never left him.
"You know," Steve murmured, voice low, "I… I wish I could've protected you back then. I wasn't there when you needed someone… when you needed her… or me."
Aiden tilted his head slightly, trying to focus past the haze of pain. "Steve, you can't fix everything. You didn't fail me here. I'm alive. That's what matters. Survival doesn't care about guilt or timing."
Steve opened his eyes, guilt and relief warring in them. "I just—"
"Enough guilt," Aiden cut in with a weak grin. "We can save that for later. Right now… you can admire how I survived a van, a light post, and a car hood in one night. Impressive, isn't it?"
Steve chuckled despite himself.
Aiden shifted slightly again, wincing, and gave Steve a faint, grim smile. "You know… if it weren't for Rosalie, I'd probably still be lying on the ground back there. She kept me calm, kept me breathing when everything was falling apart. Without her… I don't even want to think about it."
Steve's eyes softened. "She… she really saved you?"
Aiden nodded, letting himself relax just a fraction. "Yeah. Don't let her know I said it, though. She'd never let me live it down."
For a moment, the room fell into quiet, broken only by the steady drip of the IV and the distant hum of the hospital corridor. Then a soft knock echoed at the door. Both looked up instinctively.
There she was: Rosalie Hale, framed in the doorway, composed, golden eyes unreadable yet carrying subtle relief and care. Her presence filled the room, commanding attention even in silence.
"You're awake," she said, her voice calm but threaded with quiet emotion, leaving the chapter suspended on the weight of everything that had been survived.