behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Thirty-Six

MILLIE

I didn't think it would be this hard to watch someone else break.

I've sat in front of cameras, faced reporters who wanted to twist my every word into something cruel. I've read stories about myself that made my hands shake. I've stood under stadium lights, adrenaline in my throat, the weight of my family's legacy pressing into my spine.

But none of it—none of it—prepared me for the sound Harper makes when she thinks I'm not listening. That soft, broken breath she lets out when she thinks she's being quiet. That shudder that runs through her body while she pretends to be still. The way her fingers twitch in mine like she's trying not to reach for something, and still needing to hold on.

I'm sitting in a stiff, plastic chair beside her while she leans against the hospital bed, forehead still touching her mother's hand like it's the only thing keeping her here. I don't move. I just sit with her. Be still with her. That's all I can do.

The machines beep in the background, slow and cruel, counting moments I wish we could pause. The lights overhead are too white, the air too cold.

I look at Harper again. The way she presses her mouth against her mother's knuckles. The way her whole body seems to curl inward, like if she could fold small enough, maybe this wouldn't hurt as much. Like maybe she could hide from it.

She hasn't said more than a few words to me since this morning. She doesn't need to. I know what she's saying with her silence.

I'm not okay.
Please don't go.
I can't do this alone.

And I won't leave her. Not now. Not when it really matters.

She looks so small like this. Like she's fighting to keep herself together and unraveling anyway. And the thing that guts me most is that she's still trying. Even now. Even with her heart shattered and her voice gone and her mom barely hanging on, Harper's still trying to be strong for everyone.

So I reach out. Just gently. I brush a hand through her hair, tucking a piece behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek, and she leans into it without even realizing she's doing it. Her skin is warm and damp from crying.

"I ordered you some food," I whisper, even though I know she won't eat. "Just in case."

She doesn't respond. Doesn't look at me. But her fingers find mine again, and that's enough.

I glance over at the bed. Her mom's breathing is uneven. Shallow. Her skin pale and paper-thin, bruises blooming around the IV lines in her arms. But her eyes are open. Watching us.

"Millie," she croaks. My heart catches in my throat at the sound of my name in her voice.

I move closer. "Yeah. I'm right here."

Her eyes flick toward Harper, and then back to me. There's something behind them. A knowing. A quiet strength. And I feel it settle in my chest before she even says it.

"You take care of her," she rasps. "You don't let her carry this alone."

I nod, tears stinging behind my eyes. "I will."

She smiles—barely, but it's there. "You're good for her."

I glance at Harper, who's trying and failing not to cry again. "She's good for me too," I whisper, and I mean it. God, I mean it.

"She loves hard," her mom says, her voice barely a breath now. "Sometimes too hard. Be patient with that. Don't run."

"I won't." I swallow around the lump in my throat. "I promise."