"You look like you're about to vomit on my very expensive shoes."
Kobe's voice cuts through the antiseptic fog of the hospital waiting room, and I realize my knee has been bouncing hard enough to register on the Richter scale for the past forty minutes.
The surgical wing of Mount Sinai smells like bleach and barely-contained terror. Fluorescent lights hum overhead with the persistence of mosquitoes that have never learned to quit.
Plastic chairs dig into my spine while my mind conjures every possible catastrophe—rejected implants, surgical complications, infections that spiral out of control.
Elsie has been in the operating room for three hours.
Three hours of silence from beyond those double doors.
Three hours of me slowly losing my grip on sanity.
"I'm fine," I manage, though my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else entirely.
"You're a terrible liar." Kobe settles into the chair beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine with deliberate warmth. "Has anyone ever told you that? Because it bears repeating."
"Maxwell mentioned it once or twice."
"Smart man." That devastating dimple appears despite the gravity of the moment. "Want me to tell you about the time I accidentally proposed to my co-star during a live interview? It's deeply humiliating and might distract you from your impending nervous breakdown."
Before I can respond, Jared strides through the entrance with a folder of paperwork tucked under his arm and an expression of controlled competence that makes my chest ache.
"Insurance is handled," he announces, settling into the chair on my other side. "I spoke with the billing department and made sure there won't be any surprises. The surgery is fully covered."
"You didn't have to do that," I whisper. "I could have figured it out."
"I know you could have." His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with practiced ease. "But you shouldn't have to figure everything out alone. Not anymore."
The kindness in his voice cracks something open inside me. Tears burn behind my eyes, threatening to spill.
"Hey, none of that." Kobe's arm wraps around my shoulders. "She's going to be fine, Rae. That surgeon has done this procedure hundreds of times. Elsie is in the best possible hands."
"What if something goes wrong?" The question escapes before I can stop it, raw and terrified. "What if her body rejects the implant? What if she wakes up and realizes the world sounds nothing like she imagined? What if I've been promising her something that disappoints her?"
"Then you'll be there to help her through the disappointment." Jared's thumb traces circles on my wrist. "The same way you've been there for everything else."
Maxwell appears from the direction of the cafeteria, carrying a paper bag that he deposits in my lap without ceremony.
"Eat," he commands.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. You've been running on caffeine and anxiety for sixteen hours." He drops into the seat across from me, grey eyes sharp with concern he's trying to disguise as irritation. "The soup is decent, which is miraculous for hospital food. The bread is acceptable. Eat before you collapse."
"Such a romantic," Kobe drawls. "Truly, your bedside manner is unparalleled."
"Shut up, Spencer."
Despite everything, a broken laugh escapes my throat. These ridiculous, impossible men showed up without being asked, without being summoned. They simply appeared because Elsie matters to me, and I matter to them.
"Tell me the proposal story," I say to Kobe, desperate for distraction. "The humiliating one."
His face lights up with the enthusiasm of someone about to commit reputational suicide for my entertainment.
"Picture this: live television, fifty million viewers, and my co-star Jessica has just been asked about our on-screen chemistry."
He leans back, gesturing dramatically.
"The interviewer turns to me and asks if I have anything to add about working with her, and my brain—my incredibly stupid, sleep-deprived brain—decides that this is the perfect moment to quote our movie's climactic scene."
"Oh no," I breathe.
"Oh yes. I look directly into the camera and say, completely seriously, 'Jessica, you're the only woman I've ever wanted to spend forever with.'" He pauses for effect. "Live. On national television. While her actual fiancé watches from backstage."
Jared chokes on air. Maxwell's lips twitch despite his best efforts. The knot in my chest loosens fractionally.
"What happened?" I demand.
"Her fiancé challenged me to a duel via Twitter. My publicist aged fifteen years in a single afternoon. And Entertainment Tonight ran a week-long special about my alleged home-wrecking tendencies."
"That's horrifying."
"I lost three brand deals and gained approximately forty thousand Instagram followers who thought the drama was hilarious." He grins. "Silver linings."
The double doors swing open, and my heart stops entirely.
Dr. Reeves emerges in surgical scrubs, mask pulled down around his neck, and his expression gives nothing away. The walk from those doors to our cluster of chairs takes approximately nine thousand years.
"Ms. Delacroix." He stops in front of me, and I realize I'm gripping Jared's hand hard enough to leave marks. "The surgery was successful. The implant is positioned perfectly, and Elsie responded beautifully to the procedure."
The words don't register at first. They bounce off my skull like raindrops on glass.
"What did you say?" My voice comes out strangled.
"She's going to hear, Ms. Delacroix." A genuine smile transforms his professional demeanor. "Once the swelling goes down and we activate the device, your sister is going to hear."
The sob that tears from my throat sounds like something dying and being reborn simultaneously. My legs give out, and suddenly three pairs of arms catch me before I hit the linoleum.
"I've got you." Maxwell's voice rumbles against my ear. "Breathe, Raegan."
"She's going to hear," I repeat, the words feeling foreign and miraculous on my tongue. "Elsie is going to hear."
"She is." Jared presses a kiss to my temple. "You did it. You saved her."
"We saved her," I correct, looking up at all three of them through blurred vision. "I couldn't have done this without you."
Kobe wipes tears from my cheeks with surprising gentleness. "Can we see her?"
Dr. Reeves nods. "She should be waking soon. One visitor at a time initially, but family can rotate through."
I follow a nurse down the corridor on legs that feel made of water. The recovery room is small and quiet, filled with the soft beeping of monitors and the rustle of sterile sheets.
Elsie lies in the hospital bed, looking impossibly young against the white pillows. A bandage wraps around her head, covering the surgical site. Her dark hair fans across the pillow.
I sink into the chair beside her and take her hand in both of mine.
Minutes pass. The machines beep their steady rhythm. Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
Then her eyes flutter open.
Confusion clouds her features at first—the disorientation of anesthesia wearing off. But then something shifts in her expression. Her face crumples as sounds flood her world for the first time.
The beeping monitors. The shuffle of feet. The distant murmur of voices. The rustle of sheets beneath her fingers.
Tears stream down her cheeks, and her breath comes in sharp, overwhelmed gasps.
"Too much," she signs with trembling hands. "Everything is so loud."
"I know, little bird." I stroke her hair with shaking fingers. "It's overwhelming at first, but you'll adjust. I promise you'll adjust."
She stares at my moving lips, then at the space around us, trying to connect visual cues to auditory information her brain has never processed before.
I lean close, press my forehead to hers, and whisper the words I've been waiting fourteen years to say aloud.
"I love you."