Chapter 5 Given Up On Him

Lyra grabbed her jacket from the back of the couch, her hands still shaking as she pulled it on. Cade was already at the door, his keys in his hand, his face unreadable in the dim light.

She followed him outside into the cool night air, the gravel crunching under her feet as they walked to his bike. It sat in the driveway, the chrome catching the faint glow from the porch light.

"Get on," he said, his voice flat.

She hesitated, staring at the bike, she'd never been on one before.

"Lyra," he said, his tone sharper now. "Get on."

She swallowed hard and stepped closer, watching as he swung his leg over and settled into the seat. He looked back at her, waiting.

"I don't know how," she admitted quietly.

His jaw tightened, then he reached back and grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward. "Swing your leg over. Sit behind me. Hold on."

She did as he said, awkwardly climbing onto the bike behind him. The seat was firm, the engine warm beneath her. She didn't know where to put her hands.

"Hold on to me," he said, his voice low.

She hesitated, then slowly wrapped her arms around his waist. She could feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the solid muscle beneath her hands. He went still for a second, his shoulders tensing under her touch, then he kicked the bike to life.

The engine roared, loud and vibrating, and she tightened her grip instinctively. He didn't say anything, just pulled out of the driveway and onto the empty street.

The wind hit her face immediately, cold and sharp, whipping her hair back. She pressed herself closer to him, her cheek against his back, her arms locked around his waist. The world blurred past them, the streetlights streaking into long lines of gold.

She didn't know where they were going, didn't know how far it was, but she didn't ask. She just held on, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind racing with everything he'd told her. Her father was dead, three years, three years, and she didn't know.

The bike slowed, and she lifted her head, blinking against the wind. They were pulling into a parking lot, the lights harsh and bright against the darkness. A sign above the entrance read Santa Maria Hospital, her stomach dropped.

"Why are we here?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the engine.

Cade didn't answer, he parked the bike and turned it off, the sudden silence almost deafening. He got off first, then turned and offered her his hand.

She stared at it, confusion clouding her mind.

"Cade, why are we at a hospital?"

"Just get off," he said, his tone clipped.

She took his hand, her legs unsteady as she climbed off the bike, her heart was racing now, panic creeping up her spine.

"I thought you were taking me to see his grave," she said, her voice rising. "Why are we here?"

He didn't answer, just started walking toward the entrance.

"Cade," she called after him, but he didn't stop.

She hurried to catch up, her chest tight with dread. He pushed through the glass doors and walked past the reception desk without stopping, like he'd been here a hundred times before. No one questioned him, no one asked where he was going.

She followed him down a long hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. Her hands were shaking again, her breathing shallow.

"Cade, please," she said, grabbing his arm. "Tell me what's going on."

He stopped, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. "You wanted to see him. So I'm taking you to see him."

Her breath caught. "What are you talking about? You said he was dead."

"He is," Cade said, his voice low and rough.

"Then why..."

He pulled his arm free and kept walking.

Lyra stood there for a moment, her mind spinning, then she forced herself to follow. They turned down another hallway, quieter now, the lights dimmer. He stopped in front of a door, the number 217 printed on a small plaque beside it.

He stared at the door for a long moment, his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Cade," she said softly. "What is this?"

He didn't look at her. "Go in."

"What?"

"Go in," he said again, his voice harder now.

She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. Then she reached for the door handle, her hand trembling, and pushed it open.

The room was small, sterile, the walls white and bare. There was a single bed in the center, surrounded by machines, monitors beeping steadily, tubes running from the bed to IV bags hanging on metal poles.

And in the bed, covered by a thin blanket, was her father. Lyra's breath left her body all at once.

He looked older, thinner, his face pale and sunken. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. Tubes ran from his nose, his arms, his chest, the machines beeped in a steady rhythm, the only sound in the room.

She couldn't move, couldn't think. She just stood there, staring at him, her mind refusing to process what she was seeing.

"No," she whispered.

Cade stepped into the room behind her, his presence heavy and oppressive.

"You said he was dead," she said, her voice breaking. "You told me he was dead."

"He is," Cade said quietly.

She spun around to face him, her eyes burning with tears. "He's breathing. He's right there. How can you say he's dead?"

Cade's jaw tightened, his eyes hard. "That's not living, Lyra. That's not him."

"He's still here," she said, her voice rising. "He's still alive."

"His body is," Cade said, his tone flat. "That's it. The rest of him is gone."

She shook her head, her hands trembling. "You don't know that. He could wake up."

"He won't."

"You don't know that," she said again, louder now.

"I do," Cade said, his voice cold. "The doctors said there's no brain activity. No chance of recovery. He's been like this for three years, Lyra. Three years."

She stared at him, her chest heaving, her mind struggling to catch up. "So you just gave up on him?"

Cade's jaw clenched, but he didn't answer.

"You gave up on him," she said again, her voice breaking. "You just decided he was dead and moved on."

"What else was I supposed to do?" he snapped, his voice rising for the first time. "Sit here every day and wait for a miracle that's never going to come?"

"Yes," she said, tears streaming down her face. "Yes, you should have. He was your father too."

Cade went still, his face hardening. "Don't."

"He took you in when you had no one," she said, her voice shaking. "He gave you a home. A family, and you just gave up on him."

"I didn't give up on him," Cade said, his voice low and dangerous. "I did everything I could. I paid for this room. I paid for the machines. I made sure he was taken care of. But I'm not going to sit here and pretend he's coming back."

Lyra shook her head, her hands covering her face. "You should have told me. You should have called me. I had a right to know."

"You were young," Cade said, his voice softer now. "What were you going to do? Come here and watch him waste away?"

"I could have said goodbye," she whispered.

Cade didn't answer. He just stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets, his jaw tight.

Lyra turned back to her father, her legs shaking as she stepped closer to the bed. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched his hand. It was cold, his skin thin and papery.

"Dad," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's me. It's Lyra."

The machines beeped steadily, the only response she got.

She sank into the chair beside the bed, her hand still holding his, her tears falling freely now.

Cade stood in the doorway, watching her, his expression unreadable.

"Does he not believe my dad would wake up?" she asked quietly, not looking at him.

Cade was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice low and rough.

"No," he said. "I don't."