𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘, 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘| Miguel Diaz [COMPLETED]

𝒍𝒗𝒊𝒊. into the fire

chapter fifty-seven:
❛ into the fire ❜

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The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor, a constant, rhythmic reminder that Arizona was still alive. The room smelled of antiseptic and sterile linens, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words and lingering prayers. Dim lights flickered softly against the pale walls, casting faint shadows over the still form lying in the bed. Arizona's face was peaceful, too peaceful, her skin pale, almost ghostly against the stark white of the pillow. Bandages covered part of her forehead, a deep cut hidden beneath the gauze. Bruises painted her arms and jaw in deep purples and fading blues, her left arm encased in a cast. IV lines trailed from the back of her hand, leading up to bags of fluids and medications keeping her stable, keeping her here.

Miguel sat beside her, hunched forward in the stiff hospital chair that had become his place of residence over the last month. His elbows rested on the edge of the mattress, fingers wrapped around her cold, unmoving hand. His grip was gentle, but firm, like he was trying to anchor her to him, as if his touch alone could pull her back from wherever she was trapped. His dark brown eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, exhaustion evident in the slumped set of his shoulders and the slight tremble in his hands. He had barely left her side, only going home when the nurses forced him to, but even then, he never stayed away for long. He couldn't.

He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a soft, lingering touch. "I can't believe this is happening again," he murmured, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of his emotions. "First me... now you?"

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, but there was no humor in it. He looked down, his gaze tracing the lines of her face, memorizing every detail as if he hadn't already done so a million times before.

"This is all my fault," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

His free hand came up, running through his messy, unkempt hair before dragging down his face. He looked exhausted, drained. But more than that, he looked broken.

"I-I lost you during the fight," he confessed, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. "I was trying to help Robby, and then... next thing I knew, you were gone." His voice wavered, thick with guilt. "I didn't even see you leave. If I had just-" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.