The night was quiet.
For once.
No group chats exploding.
No Percy planning surprise events.
No hospital emergencies.
No board calls from overseas.
Just silence.
Jay lay curled against Keifer's chest, her hand resting over his heart like she always did now — subconsciously checking rhythm, warmth, reassurance.
Steady.
Strong.
Safe.
She was asleep within minutes.
Keifer wasn't.
He'd felt it earlier — the tightness.
A dull ache beneath his sternum.
He'd ignored it. He was good at ignoring things. Pain. Fear. Weakness.
Especially weakness.
He shifted slightly so he wouldn't wake her. The pressure in his chest deepened. A sharp pull when he inhaled too fully.
It's nothing, he told himself.
Stress.
Too much work.
Not enough sleep.
He closed his eyes.
Sometime around 3:17 AM, he woke abruptly.
Breath short.
Chest burning.
He carefully slid out from under Jay's arm, sitting up slowly so he wouldn't disturb her.
The room spun slightly.
He pressed a hand to his mouth.
Coughed once.
Twice.
The third time—
Warmth.
Metallic.
He looked down at his palm.
Red.
For a second, his brain refused to process it.
Blood.
He stood too quickly.
The room tilted.
Another cough tore through him — harsher this time — and blood splattered against the white bathroom sink.
His fingers trembled.
No.
No, not now.
Not like this.
Behind him, the bed creaked.
"Keifer?"
Her voice was thick with sleep.
He wiped his mouth quickly. Too quickly.
"I'm fine," he tried.
She was already sitting up.
And Jay Mariano did not miss details.
Even in the dark.
Even half asleep.
Her eyes adjusted.
She saw his posture.
The way he was bracing the counter.
The sound of his breathing.
Then she saw the sink.
And the blood.
Everything in her changed.
She was out of bed in seconds.
"Move."
It wasn't his fiancée speaking.
It wasn't the woman who giggled at Percy's chaos.
It was Dr. Jay Mariano.
The Miracle Surgeon.
Sharp. Focused. Unshakable.
She reached him, steadying his shoulders.
"How much?"
"It's nothing—"
"How. Much."
He swallowed. "Two… maybe three coughs."
"Dizziness?"
"A little."
"Pain?"
He hesitated.
Her eyes sharpened.
"Keifer."
"Yes."
"Scale of one to ten."
"Six."
That was enough.
She guided him to sit on the edge of the tub.
Calm hands. Controlled breathing.
Inside, her heart was slamming so hard she could hear it in her ears.
Hemoptysis.
Chest pain.
Acute onset.
Think.
Think.
She grabbed a towel, wiped his mouth gently, assessing volume.
Not massive.
But not insignificant.
"Any fever recently?"
"No."
"Shortness of breath before tonight?"
"Some. I thought it was stress."
"You don't get to 'think' anymore," she snapped softly. "You tell me everything."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"I didn't want to worry you."
Her hands stilled for half a second.
Then resumed.
"You don't get to decide that."
Another small cough.
This time, just pink.
She inhaled slowly.
Okay.
Airway stable.
He's conscious.
Responsive.
Breathing, though shallow.
She pressed her stethoscope — always in her bag, always — to his chest.
Lungs.
Left lower lobe — diminished.
Right side — slightly coarse.
Her mind raced through possibilities.
Infection.
Pulmonary embolism.
Stress-induced rupture?
No. Not guesswork.
Action.
She looked at him.
Really looked at him.
He looked pale.
Still steady.
Still trying to be strong for her.
Idiot.
"You're going to the hospital."
"Jay—"
"No."
His eyes softened.
"You're shaking."
"I am not."
"You are."
She hadn't noticed.
Her hands were trembling.
She clenched them into fists.
Forced stillness.
"I'm your patient right now," he said quietly.
Her jaw tightened.
"Yes."
"And you're the best doctor in the country."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
His hand reached for hers.
Warm.
Alive.
"I trust you."
That almost broke her.
She inhaled sharply.
Professional.
You are professional.
"You don't get special treatment," she said evenly. "You get protocol."
"Understood."
She grabbed her phone.
Called ahead.
Voice calm.
Clinical.
"This is Dr. Mariano. I'm bringing in a male, 28, acute hemoptysis, moderate chest pain, vitals stable but symptomatic. Prep imaging and respiratory."
She hung up.
Turned back to him.
"You're not driving," she said.
"I figured."
She helped him stand slowly.
He leaned on her more than he realized.
That scared her more than the blood.
The elevator ride down felt endless.
Her mind was split in two.
Doctor Jay:
Assess. Stabilize. Diagnose. Act.
Jay, the woman who just got engaged:
Please don't let this be something serious.
Please don't take him from me.
Not now. Not when we just started.
He noticed her silence.
"Jay."
"Don't."
"If something's wrong—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
He exhaled softly.
When they reached the car, she buckled him in with precise hands.
Then paused.
Her forehead rested briefly against his.
Just one second.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I know."
Her eyes flashed.
"Don't you dare 'I know' me right now."
He gave a weak smile.
"I love you too."
She drove.
Faster than she ever had.
But controlled.
Always controlled.
As they pulled into the hospital entrance, staff were already waiting.
The moment they saw who the patient was—
Shock.
But Jay's voice cut through it cleanly.
"Move."
And they did.
Because when Dr. Jay Mariano looked like that —
No one questioned her.
They transferred him to a gurney.
He caught her wrist before they wheeled him further.
"Hey."
She looked at him.
And for just a second, she wasn't a surgeon.
She was terrified.
"Stay with me," she ordered.
His fingers squeezed hers.
"Always."
The doors swung open.
And Dr. Jay Mariano walked in beside her patient.
Beside her fiancé.
Ready to fight.
For him.