Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The impact hit like a scream. Sudden, loud, and horrible enough to alert *anyone*.

She didn’t remember the moment of collision—just the aftermath. Just the violence of it. One minute, everything had been fine; the next, her entire body had been flung sideways with a deafening crunch of metal and light.
And now—

Now everything was still.

Spensa lay on her back, half conscious, her mind floating somewhere just above the hazy pain. That was the first thing she noticed: the pressing silence. Not peaceful—just wrong. A kind of silence that buzzed and flickered around the edges. Like her ears were ringing. Like the universe had stopped moving.

Then the pain caught up. Properly.

It was sharp and deep and agonizingly burning, lodged inside her chest like something had been forced out of place and was now trying to make its way back in. She tried to gasp, but her lungs rebelled—tight, cracking, and full of fire. The breath caught halfway and turned into a whimper.

Something was very, very wrong.

Her ribs—stars, her scudding ribs.

She tried to sit up.

Bad idea.

Her vision went white. Stars—not the kind she soared through, but the kind that came with pain.

Spensa coughed, and agony ripped through her like shrapnel. She tasted blood. Couldn’t even sit up. Couldn’t move. Her hands scrabbled weakly at the cracked surface beneath her—metallic, burnt, half-melted. What even was that? The wreckage of her own ship surrounded her like the ribs of some ancient, dying beast.

“Spensa!”

That voice cut through the haze. Familiar. Tight. Terrified.

Jorgen.

She blinked, her vision a slurry of shadows and light and shapes that refused to stay still. Something slammed down beside her, and suddenly there were hands—steady, warm, and trembling. One held her own. The other hovered an inch above her torso like it wanted to touch but didn’t dare.

“Spensa. Spensa, hey—look at me.” His voice cracked around the edges, and even through the haze, Spensa could tell he was barely keeping himself together. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Stars—don’t move, please don’t—”

She tried. She really did. But her lungs felt too small. Like she’d shrunk inside her own body and everything hurt and her bones weren’t even whole anymore.

“I—I can’t,” she rasped, barely above a whisper. The words cost too much. Her mouth tasted like copper. “Jerkface…”

His breath caught. “Don’t talk.”

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

“Spensa.” His grip on her hand tightened. “Don’t you dare.”

She didn’t respond. No witty comeback. No grin. Just a shallow, wheezing breath that sounded wrong even to her own ears.

He pressed two fingers gently against her pulse, then let out a broken breath. Relief, maybe. Or just holding back panic and failing miserably. “You’ve got broken ribs. I think—I think at least three. You’re—stars, you’re still bleeding.”

She swallowed hard. Her chest ached with every breath—shallow, uneven, taking way too much energy. Her skin burned where it met hers, too warm against the cold sweat slicking her skin.

“I didn’t see it,” she mumbled. “Didn’t see the—”

“I know,” Jorgen said quickly, voice wavering. “It wasn’t your fault. That blast—it came out of nowhere.” He was talking too fast, his words crashing over each other like waves. “Rig’s calling for medical now. Just—just hold on.”

He brushed her hair out of her face with a touch so gentle it made her want to cry.
“I can’t breathe,” she whispered, voice low and pained. “Feels like something’s stabbing me.”

“It’s your ribs. One of them might’ve punctured your lung.” His voice dropped to a broken murmur. “Stars, Spensa. Why didn’t I see it coming?”

“Not your fault,” she breathed. “You’re not all-seeing, Jerkface…”

Jorgen gave a small, strangled laugh—half-choked by emotion. “Don’t joke.”

“Then you do it.” Her lips quirked. “You’re usually the sarcastic one.”

His face twisted in pain. “Not now. I can’t—not when you’re lying there like this—”

“I’ve had worse,” she tried to say, but the words dissolved into a wet, rattling cough that made her body seize up. White-hot pain blinded her. Her whole torso felt like it had caved in.

Jorgen’s arms were around her not even a second later, bracing her, easing her back down with an almost frantic care. “Stop. Don’t—don’t do that again. Just breathe. Please.”

“I can’t—” She gasped, eyes wide, clutching at his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world. “Jorgen, I can’t even breathe—”

He cradled her tighter, pressing his forehead to hers. “You can. You just need to go slow. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

But he wasn’t okay. Not even close.

His hands were shaking. She could feel it. Every breath she struggled through made him hold his tighter. There was blood on his sleeve—her blood. And his eyes were wet.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, as if saying it could rewrite reality some how. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just… stay awake. Stay with me.”

And she wanted to. Stars, she wanted to. But the world was fuzzy around the edges, and her own breath betrayed her. She couldn’t draw in enough air. Couldn’t fight the pain.

But she still closed her eyes, trusting that.

Trusting him.

The world around her had crumbled into smoke and debris, but Jorgen was here. He was steady. Solid. Warm.

She felt his lips brush her forehead. Not a kiss of passion—of promise. Of desperation.

“I love you,” he said quietly, like a vow. “You’re going to be okay. Even if I have to carry you to the medical bay myself.”

She smiled through the pain. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Love you too.”

Then the darkness pulled her under, quiet and soft, the way sleep used to be when she was okay and safe and whole.

And Jorgen held her all the way through it.

──────── ✧ ────────

Jorgen didn’t remember how long he knelt beside her.

Time folded in on itself, meaningless in the way that only pain could make it. The world around him faded into static—distant voices, crackling radios, boots crunching against sand and rock, Rig shouting something over the comms. None of it mattered.

Not when her breaths were coming shallower and slower. Not when her blood was seeping out in slow, sticky warmth onto the cold ground beneath them, staining it in dark crimson.

Not when Spensa—the fiercest, loudest, most alive person he had ever known—lay so horrifyingly still.

Not invincible. Almost fragile.

He pressed his hand harder against her ribs, trying to stop the bleeding even though he knew it wouldn’t be enough. His fingers were slick with red. His throat was raw and constricted. He didn’t know if he was whispering her name or praying to something that didn’t exist.

Light flared.
A roaring wind.
Then—

“Med team incoming.”

Boots thundered to a halt beside them. Hands pulled at his shoulders, trying to push him back, but Jorgen refused. He stayed planted right there, body curled protectively over hers until one of the medics gripped his shoulder and looked at him.

“Admiral,” the woman said, voice firm but kind. “We need space. Let us help her.”

That broke something loose inside him.

He moved—barely—just enough to let them in. Just enough to watch them descend like a storm of steady hands and quick words. They cut away at her jacket, ran scanners over her torso, inserted tubes and IVs and strange blinking things Jorgen didn’t understand.

“She’s not breathing properly,” someone muttered. “Chest is caving in. Probably a flail segment.”

“Collapsed lung?” another asked.

“Very likely. Prep for stabilization. Oxygen, now.”

Jorgen’s breath caught.

He stood off to the side, hands clenched at his sides, watching them do what he should have been able to do—what he would have done if he were a surgeon instead of some damn Admiral with no power in the places that mattered. He felt useless. Useless and furious.

“She was talking to me,” he said hoarsely. “Just a few minutes ago. She was conscious.”

“She’s losing that,” one medic replied tightly. “The trauma to the chest is extensive. Two broken ribs minimum, more likely four or five. Could be internal bleeding—we won’t know the full extent until we get her to the hospital.”

“She coughed blood.” His voice cracked on the word. “What does that mean?”

“It means you were smart to keep her still,” the lead medic answered. “Could’ve torn something worse if she tried to get up.”

Jorgen swallowed hard. His hands were still shaking. His chest hurt like he’d taken the hit himself.

“She’s going to make it, right?” he asked quietly.

No one answered.

The vehicle arrived with a hiss of pressurized air. Medical transport. Slick white and sterile. They loaded Spensa in carefully, her body strapped down, oxygen mask secured to her face. Her skin looked wrong—too pale, her light freckles—which were once barely visible—standing out like stars on frostbitten ground.

Jorgen climbed in after them without asking permission.

“Sir—”

“I’m going with her.”

They didn’t argue. They knew better than to do that.

He sat beside her the entire way. Silent. Staring. Not blinking. His hand hovered over hers but didn’t touch. He didn’t want to jostle anything. Every bump in the ride felt like an earthquake with a magnitude of 9, and every time she exhaled with a rattling wheeze, he wanted to scream or cry or throw something.

They reached the hospital in record time.

Bright lights. Hallways too clean. Air smelling to sterile—like antiseptic and something more. White walls that reminded him of command centers and death. A blur of doors opened. Monitors beeped like threats. People swarmed around Spensa’s stretcher, barking orders and medical terms Jorgen couldn’t follow.

Then someone grabbed his arm. Firmly.

“You need to wait here.”

“I’m not—”

“You need to wait here.”

The double doors slammed shut in his face, and for the first time since the crash, he was alone.

He stood there frozen. Breathing too fast. Hands stained with her blood. He hadn’t let go of her the entire way. But now—

Now she was behind glass and sterile walls and strangers in white coats.

And he didn’t know if she was going to wake up again.

Scudding stars—how could he just stand there and do nothing?

Jorgen paced as if that would offer some kind of resolve from his thoughts, boots echoing against sterile metal floors with each uneven step.

Until they made him sit. Eventually.

The waiting room was too quiet. Too slow. His thoughts were screaming.

He stared at the floor. He didn’t care that his knees were jittering, that he was trembling down to his bones. He felt cold, even though he wasn’t. All he could see in his mind was her body on the ground. That gasp. Her voice when she said she couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

Jorgen pressed his fists to his eyes and tried to hold himself together. He failed.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss.

A doctor finally came out, clipboard in hand. Jorgen stood before the man even opened his mouth.

“She’s alive,” the doctor said first. “But it’s serious.”

Jorgen’s knees nearly gave out. “What happened? What’s wrong with her? Tell me everything.”

The doctor’s face was drawn tight, tired.

“She sustained multiple fractures to her ribs. Four, to be exact. Two of them were broken in two places, creating what’s called a ‘flail segment.’ It’s when a portion of the ribcage detaches from the rest and moves independently. That’s why she was having trouble breathing.”

Jorgen didn’t breathe either.

“Additionally,” the doctor went on, “one of the broken ribs punctured her right lung. It collapsed partially. We inserted a chest tube to help reinflate it and relieve the pressure. There’s some internal bleeding, but we’re managing it.”

“Is she in surgery?”

“No. We stabilized her without it—for now. But she’s sedated and unconscious. We’re monitoring her vitals constantly. The next twenty four hours are critical.”

Twenty four hours.

It sounded like a sentence. Like he’d already lost her and just didn’t know yet. Like there was an ongoing timer on her stability, counting every last second like it was all the life she had left to live.

“She’ll wake up?” he asked, voice small even to his own ears.

“We hope so. Her condition is serious, but not beyond hope.” The doctor’s expression softened. “She was lucky. If she’d moved any farther, even an inch the wrong way, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

Jorgen turned away. Clenched his jaw.

Lucky. He didn’t feel lucky.

He felt like the universe had shoved a knife into his chest and twisted.

“She asked me to stay,” he said quietly. “Before she passed out. She said she couldn’t breathe and she was scared and she still—joked. Even then.”

The doctor nodded gently. “That sounds like her.”

“Can I see her?”

“Only for a few minutes.”

That was all he needed.

──────── ✧ ────────

The ER room was too cold.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just Jorgen who felt like he’d been scraped out until hollow and frozen from the inside. Either way, the chill clung to his skin like frostbite as he stepped through the doors, by a medic who didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

He saw her before he saw anything else.

Spensa lay on the sterile white bed, draped in too many layers of medical fabric, wires trailing out of her like tangled vines. Her arm was hooked to a fluid drip. Her mouth was covered with a clear oxygen mask, mist blooming and vanishing with each shallow breath. A tube had been inserted into her chest just below her ribs, connecting to a fluid bag that was already turning dark with blood.

Her face was pale. Her hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat and soot. Her body didn’t move—not even a twitch.

The only proof she was alive came from the slow, mechanical beeping of the heart monitor beside her.

Jorgen’s breath stuttered. Something sharp and invisible curled around his chest like a vice.

He approached like he was walking through a graveyard. Careful. Quiet. Almost afraid.

And then he was there—at her side. A blue chair had been pulled up, unused, waiting for someone who loved her to sit down.

He did.

Slowly, he lowered himself into it, elbows on his knees, then leaned forward until he was as close to her as he could get without disturbing the delicate tangle of wires around her body.

“Spin?” he whispered. His voice cracked instantly.

She didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t.

But he reached out anyway. Took her hand—the one that didn’t have a fluid drip connected to it, the one not bruised or bandaged—and folded it gently in his.

“I’m here,” he said, as if she could hear him when unconscious. “I’m right here, Spensa.”

He stared at her face. Pale lips—dry, cracked, slightly split down the middle. Freckles like smudged constellations. A faint smear of dried blood at the corner of her mouth.

The same lips that had teased him yesterday. Kissed him last night. Called him “Jerkface” with a grin that could stop his heart.

Now she way just laying there. Now, he couldn’t even feel her cytonically.

Now she looked so… so small.

“I never thought you could look small,” he said quietly. “Not you. You’ve always taken up the whole damn room. Loud. Bright. Furious at everything.”

He gave tired, wet laugh, and his thumb rubbed slow circles against the cold skin of her hand.

“You’d be so pissed off if you knew how fragile you look right now. You’d say something about being a warrior of the stars, not some broken little… thing.”

His voice caught.

He looked away. Took a shaking breath. Then back to her again. His eyes roamed across the blinking monitors, then down to her chest—watching it rise and fall with an uneven, assisted rhythm.

“Why didn’t I see it coming?” he whispered. “You always tell me I overthink everything. But this—I should’ve been faster. Should’ve ordered you to pull back. Should’ve done something.”

His grip on her hand tightened. Just barely.

“I know you’d tell me to shut up. That you’re not some helpless damsel. And you’re right. You’re not. You’ve saved us more times than I can count. But Spensa—this time, you went down.”

He blinked hard. Cleared his throat.

“There was a second… just after it happened… where you weren’t moving. Not even breathing. And I thought—” He stopped. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t speak that kind of terror into the room. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

His voice dropped even lower. Raw. Honest. Frayed at the edges.

“I don’t think I could survive that.”

He reached up, brushing a soot-smeared strand of brown hair from her temple. His fingers trembled against her skin.

“You always come back. No matter what happens. You crash, you bleed, you scream, you hyperjump, you get trapped in a whole different dimension—but you come back. That’s who you are.”

A small pause.

“So you’re going to come back from this, too. You hear me?”

The monitors continued their soft, rhythmic beep. She didn’t move. Her hand stayed limp and cold in his.

“I’ll stay right here,” he said, and rested his forehead on her hand, eyes closed tight. “I’ll wait. I won’t leave. I’ll stay as long as it takes.”

He didn’t care about the blood on his clothes. Or the ache in his own muscles. Or the fact that the rest of Skyward Flight was probably tearing the med bay apart with worry.

All he cared about was her.

He didn’t even realize someone had entered until a nurse spoke quietly from behind him.

“They’re prepping for transport to the ICU now. She’s stable enough to move.”

Jorgen didn’t look up. “Can I go with her?”

“You can meet her there in ten minutes. She’ll be sedated for a while.”

He nodded once.

The nurse hesitated. “She’s lucky you found her as fast as you did, Sir.”

Jorgen didn’t respond. He just pressed one more kiss to the back of Spensa’s hand.

And as they came to wheel her away, he whispered under his breath: so quiet, only the air itself heard it.

“I can’t lose you.”

──────── ✧ ────────

Jorgen didn’t move from the hallway.

He couldn’t go into the ICU—yet. They needed time to set her up, adjust the monitors, run scans, stabilize the machinery keeping her alive. She was stable enough, the nurse had said. But even those words felt fragile, like they’d shatter under too much weight.

So he waited just outside. Pressed against the wall.
Fists clenched. Breathing unsteady.
The floor still smelled like antiseptic and fear.

And that’s when the doors at the end of the corridor *slammed* open.

“Where is she?!” FM’s voice rang out, furious and wild and cracked with panic.

The clutter of footsteps followed—rushed, uncoordinated. Nedd’s boots squeaking on the tiles. Kimmalyn trying to keep up. Arturo’s voice trying to calm them, but even his tone shook.

“She’s here,” Jorgen croaked hoarsely, pushing himself off the wall.

FM reached him first, grabbing at his arms, her eyes wide and brimming with disbelief. “Where is she? What happened? Is she alive?!”

“She’s alive,” he said, and the words didn’t even sound real. “She’s—she’s unconscious. But stable. The lung’s collapsed. Broken ribs. Something called a ‘flail segment’. Internal bleeding. They’re doing everything they can.”

FM staggered backward like he’d slapped her. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face.

“No,” Kimmalyn whispered, catching up, her curls a mess. “No, no, no—she was fine. She was just—this morning—she gave me her algae muffin because I dropped mine—she was fine!”

“She’s strong,” Arturo tried to say, but even his voice cracked halfway through.

Nedd, who was uncharacteristically silent, leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs splayed out, head in his hands. “Stars,” he muttered. “Stars, I can’t—I thought she was dead. Rig said she went down. Said the medics had to carry her out.”

“She was barely breathing,” Jorgen whispered. “I stayed with her the whole time.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Kimmalyn launched herself forward and wrapped him in a crushing hug. For a second, Jorgen just stood there—then he broke. His arms wrapped tight around her, and he didn’t even try to stop the silent tears as they burned their way out of his eyes.

“She’s going to make it,” he said, voice shaking and hoarse. “She has to.”

“Of course she will,” FM said. But it sounded more like a plea than a promise.

Arturo put a hand on Alanik’s shoulder as she approached, silent but wide-eyed, face drawn tight with fear. She didn’t say anything, just stood beside him like her presence could hold up the whole weight.

FM finally crossed the space and dropped into the seat beside Jorgen. “They said collapsed lung? Broken ribs?”

“She coughed up blood,” he replied, his voice a low murmur. “Her ribs were moving in different directions. She—she told me she couldn’t even breathe.”

FM’s eyes squeezed shut. “That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever heard.”

“She was joking through it,” he said, voice sharp and raw. “Still trying to act like it was nothing. Still calling me ‘Jerkface’ even though she could barely talk or move.”

“She would,” Nedd croaked from the floor. “Stubborn star-chosen lunatic.”
And somehow, that broke the silence.

“Remember when she made us all algae pancakes because she read some dumb article about ‘cooking properly’?” FM asked. “She put beetroot in them.”

“They were purple,” Kimmalyn added weakly, eyes glassy. “I thought it was jam.”

“She threw one at me when I said they looked like crap,” Nedd said, voice hollow.

“She swore it would help our reaction times.” Arturo sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I pretended mine was good just so she’d stop glaring at me.”

Jorgen felt the weight in his chest shift—not lighter, exactly, but shared. Cracked open and bleeding and exposed for everyone to see.

They were hurting. All of them. Because Spensa wasn’t just their pilot. She was their chaos. Their friend. Their fire. Their damn star.

She was theirs.

And she was lying unconscious in the ICU, with wires running into her chest and dried blood on her lips.

The door opened a moment later, and a nurse stepped out.

“You can see her,” she said quietly. “One at a time.”

They all turned.

Jorgen didn’t speak. He just stood.

FM touched his arm, her fingers light but grounding. “You go first.”

The ICU was dim. Cold. Machines hissed and beeped. Her bed was surrounded by clear partitions, soft lights illuminating her broken form like she was something sacred.

Which, to Jorgen—she was.

He approached with slow, measured steps. Sat back down in a chair that was placed beside the bed.

Her lips were still pale. Her skin, bruised in soft purples, angry blues and almost blacks, spreading down her sides like an atrocious galaxy. He’d memorized every shade by just staring. Her chest rose shallowly under the oxygen.

“Still not talking?” he murmured. “Typical.”

She didn’t respond. But he stayed anyway.

After a few minutes, a soft knock came. FM stepped in.

“I—sorry,” she said. “I just… I couldn’t wait anymore.”

Jorgen nodded, then stood, letting her take his place.

FM didn’t say anything at first. She just reached out and brushed Spensa’s hair off her forehead.

“You once told me I was the only person you wanted to fly beside you while doing something reckless,” she whispered. “That scared the hell out of me. I thought it meant you were going to get me killed.”

She gave a wet laugh.

“But you didn’t. You got yourself half-killed instead. Typical.”

Jorgen stayed silent in the back of the room as the others slowly filtered in, one by one.

Kimmalyn pressed a button on her bracelet, letting a soft glow enter the room.
She wept silently.

Nedd sat beside the bed and told Spensa the most inappropriate, ridiculous story from their last mission, then said, “You better wake up soon, or I’m going to start flirting with somebody just to keep things interesting.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jorgen muttered.

Alanik stood quietly at the foot of the bed, eyes tight with grief. She didn’t speak—but
Arturo did. He stood behind her, hand gently resting on her back.

“She’s our center,” he said. “Even when she’s not trying to be. She holds us together. She’s saved us more times than I can count.”

“I know,” Alanik murmured, voice low and fierce. “That’s why she can’t fall apart.”

And slowly—like gravity had been waiting for the right moment—they all sank to the floor or pulled up chairs or leaned on each other, surrounding her like a constellation.

No one spoke for a long time.

And then FM leaned her head on the wall and whispered, “We’re not okay without her.”

And no one disagreed.

The door slammed open with a considerably loud *bang* that made everyone flinch.

“Where—Is—She?!”

The voice rang through the silence of the ICU.

Jorgen turned just in time to see Rig barreling into the room, still in his engineering suit, water canteen tucked under one arm, his red hair an absolute mess, and eyes blazing with something between fury and heartbreak. It seemed as if he’d ran all the way here since he heard she was finally stabilized.

He looked like he hadn’t breathed since the call went out.

“Rodge—” FM started, rising to her feet, but he was already moving, his eyes locking on the hospital bed like he couldn’t see anything else. Couldn’t feel anything else.

He stumbled to her side. And froze.

“…Spensa,” he whispered. The name left him like a prayer. Like a curse.

His gaze swept over her body—bruises, the oxygen mask, the heart monitor, the tube in her chest—and his expression shifted entirely, one hand clutching at the wall behind her bed like the world had just punched him in the stomach.

“No no no no no no no—”

He dropped the water canteen. It hit the floor with a crack.

“She was fine,” he gasped. “She was fine… I saw her—before she left—she said she had a weird dream about Doomslug eating wires and I told her she was insane and she laughed and that was seven hours ago and now she’s—she’s—”

His voice trailed off

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” he said brokenly. “I—I thought they were exaggerating when they said she went down, I thought maybe she crashed hard, but she always crashes hard, she walks away every time, she hyperjumps away…”

He leaned back against the wall and slid down beside the bed. His fingers curled around FM’s hand.

“She always comes back,” he said, his voice cracking wide open. “Spensa always comes back.”

Jorgen knelt slowly beside him. “She’s going to. She just needs time.”

But Rig shook his head, trembling. “I’ve known her since we were kids. Long before fore flight school. Since before this whole pilot thing. Before stars and slugs and Detritus and the intergalactic war. She’s my best friend. She’s—Spensa.”
His voice broke. “And she looks like she’s not even here.”

He turned and pressed his forehead to the edge of the bed, right near her elbow. His fingers curled around the blanket.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispered. “I should’ve seen the blast coming. I should’ve warned her. I should have done something.”

“You weren’t in the sky,” Jorgen said. “None of this is your fault.”

“She trusted me.”

“She still does.”

Silence rang in the room like an echo. A weighted one.

Then slowly, gently, FM closed the distance between them and wrapped an arm around Rig. Her other hand slid across his back, warm and grounding. “She’d hate seeing you blame yourself.”

“She’d punch me for it,” Rig muttered, watery and hollow. “Or call me a scudding idiot.”

“She calls me that all the time,” FM said softly.

Rig let out a tiny, broken laugh that turned into a cough.

“Hey.” Alanik stepped forward, calm and solid. “She’s alive. She’s fighting.”

“And she wouldn’t want us falling apart,” Arturo added, drawing Alanik just a little closer into his side. She didn’t resist. Their hands found each other between them, barely laced together but there. Quiet, steady comfort.

Kimmalyn stepped to the opposite side of the bed and began softly adjusting the edges of Spensa’s blanket, her fingers moving with a slow, reverent care. “The Saint watches over her. And us.”

And still, Spensa didn’t move.
Didn’t twitch. Didn’t stir.

Jorgen closed his eyes. Then—like he couldn’t stop himself—he lifted his head and leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to Spensa’s knuckles.

“Come back, Spin,” Rig whispered. “I didn’t even tell you about the new engine model yet.”

He laughed again, shaky and painful.

“I was going to make you test it. You were going to hate it. You were going to yell at me and say it felt like flying a metal scrap and I was going to tell you to stop being dramatic—”

“Then you were going to fight about it for six hours,” Nedd added helpfully from the floor, voice dry. “And somehow end up closer by the end.”

Rig blinked, then nodded. “Exactly.”

Jorgen stood, took a long breath, then reached for the blanket and pulled it up just slightly more over her shoulder.

“She’s going to come back,” he said again. Not because he believed it fully yet—but because he *had* to believe it.

Rig sniffed. “She better. I’m not rewriting her code for her funeral.”
Kimmalyn swatted him, horrified. “Rig.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “She wrote her eulogy in dramatic sentences and very violent threats. She said—and I quote—’I carved my name into the bones of the battlefield, and even in death, I promise I’m still haunting your every breath like the shadow of the war you should’ve never started’.

Silence.

Then FM snorted. “Of course it does.”

Arturo gave a small, strangled laugh. “Why would I expect anything else?”

Rig leaned his head on the bed again, eyes full of exhaustion and something deeper.

“She said it would ‘capture her spirit.’”

“She was right,” Jorgen whispered.

They stayed long after the doctors asked them to leave.
After visiting hours ended.
After the lights dimmed and the hospital staff grew quieter.

They sat in a circle of chairs, blankets around their shoulders, boots kicked off, coffee cups half-empty, and a quiet pulsing heart monitor keeping time.

FM eventually fell asleep against Rig’s shoulder. He didn’t move.

Kimmalyn curled up in a chair, clutching Spensa’s DDF flight pin like a prayer stone.

Nedd leaned against the back of his chair, finished the last of his algae and mushroom wrap and said: “She’s going to be so pissed we all saw her like this.”

Jorgen just sat at her side. Holding her hand. Waiting.

──────── ✧ ────────

The room had quieted. Just barely.

They were all still there, tucked into the corners of the ICU room like shattered glass pressed together, trying not to fall apart. Someone had bought another blanket. FM had finally fallen asleep against Rig’s side. Jorgen hadn’t moved from his seat by Spensa’s bed.

Outside, the sky was still dark. Pre-dawn.

Inside, the heart monitor beeped in the background like a ticking clock on borrowed time.

Spensa hadn’t moved.

And Jorgen hadn’t let go of her hand. Not once.

Not until the door creaked open.

Everyone looked up at once.

A doctor stepped in—same one from before. Lean, mid-30s, sunken eyes, scrubs wrinkled and stained from a long night of trying to keep her alive. He didn’t bring a clipboard this time.

Jorgen’s body stiffened immediately. “What is it?”

The doctor hesitated.

Then sighed. “Her vitals are deteriorating.”

FM sat bolt upright. Rig jerked into full awareness. Kimmalyn stood.

“What do you mean deteriorating?” Jorgen asked, standing, voice already sharp. “You said she was stable.”

“She was,” the doctor said. “But her lung is still leaking air into the pleural space. The chest tube gave us a temporary solution, but she’s developing signs of respiratory distress again. Her oxygen saturation is dropping. If we don’t act now—”

“Act how?” FM snapped.

“We need to operate.”

The words fell like a lifebuster.

No one spoke. For a second, the room didn’t breathe at all.

“Wait,” Rig said, voice cracking. “Surgery? Now?”

“She’s not going to improve on her own,” the doctor said. “We tried non-invasive stabilization. It’s not enough.”

“Thoracotomy,” the doctor said. “We’ll open the chest cavity to repair the lung directly. Stop the leak, suture the tissue. And we need to stabilize the flail segment—plate the ribs. There’s also blood pooling near the lower lobe we need to evacuate.”

“Will she survive it?” Arturo asked quietly, visibly holding himself together.

Everyone turned.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to the floor. Then back at them.

“She’s strong. But yes—there are risks.”

FM’s breath hitched.

“Then fix her,” Jorgen said. He stepped forward. “Whatever it takes—fix her.”

The doctor nodded. “We’re prepping her now.”

And then—they started moving.

Nurses entered. The room turned into a blur. Spensa’s bed was unlocked, machines detached one by one, the soft beeping becoming erratic as monitors were temporarily disabled.

And Spensa—motionless, pale, tubes still in her body—was wheeled away.

“Wait—” Jorgen moved with them. “Let me go with her. Please.”

“You can walk beside her to the OR,” the doctor said, nodding.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He followed them into the hallway, step-for-step beside the bed, eyes locked on her face. He brushed her hand one more time. Just once.

“I’m still right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t hear him.

But he kept saying it anyway.

Behind them, the rest of Skyward Flight watched.

FM had frozen halfway out the door. Her hands were pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and wet.

Kimmalyn was already crying silently, mouthing words to a prayer only the Saint understood.

Rig had sat down—hard—on a bench, hands clenched, body rocking slightly.

“She’s strong,” Arturo said, mostly to himself. “She’s survived worse. She can do this.”

Alanik stood beside him, her hand gripping his tightly. Her jaw was set like iron, but her eyes shimmered. “She has to.”

Jorgen stood just outside the OR doors as they reached the threshold.

A nurse stepped in front of him. “This is as far as you go.”

He nodded. Swallowed.

Then leaned in, gently cupping the side of Spensa’s face.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You better wake up from this.”

He kissed her forehead. Just once. Long and trembling.

Then stepped back as the doors closed between them.

And she was gone.

The hallway was too quiet.

He stood there for a long second, staring at the space where she’d disappeared.

Then he turned and walked back to the waiting room.

FM was pacing when he returned. Her hair was a mess. Her flight suit looked like she’d clawed at it. “What’s happening? How long is it going to take?”

“Four to six hours,” Jorgen said. “Depending on how bad the lung damage is.”

“She could die,” she whispered.

“She won’t,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.” He sat down heavily. “But she told me she’d fight.”

Rig finally spoke. “How do we sit here and wait?”

Jorgen didn’t answer. He just stared at his hands. Still trembling. Still blood coated in memory.

“She’s going to make it,” Kimmalyn said softly, clinging to belief like it was oxygen. Like her life depended on it. “She has to. She’s Spensa.”

Alanik looked around the room. At every one of them. “We need to believe that. All of us.”

Silence.

Then, without a word, Nedd stood and walked over to the centre of the waiting area, pulled three chairs into a triangle, and said, “Fine. We’re staying here. No one leaves.”

Jorgen gave a hollow laugh. “We already weren’t going to.”

FM dropped into a chair and clutched her knees to her chest. “I don’t care if they kick us out. I’m not leaving until I see her breathing on her own.”

Rig nodded. “Same.”

Arturo slouched down beside Alanik and muttered, “She’s going to kill us all for fussing this much.”

“She deserves it,” Alanik said.

“She always does,” Jorgen added.

And so they waited. For the surgery to end.
For a doctor to walk back in with good news.
For their girl to come back to them.

Because until then… They weren’t okay. And they wouldn’t be.

──────── ✧ ────────

The waiting room was even quieter now.

Not silent—never silent—but in the kind of eerie, heavy quiet where even breathing felt far too loud. Where the tick of the wall clock sounded like it was mocking them. Where the fluorescent lights flickered just slightly, like they too were unsure how long to keep shining.

Time had lost all its meaning.

It all made Jorgen want to scream.

Every time a nurse walked by, the whole room sat up straighter, like starving dogs waiting for scraps of hope. Then they'd slump again when the nurse just kept walking.

Three hours.

Then four.

Then five.

FM sat in a corner chair, curled up with her head on her knees, staring blankly ahead. Her cheeks were streaked with dried tears, but her eyes had stopped producing more—as if her body had run out. Next to her, Rig was muttering to himself. Quiet equations. Engine math. Technical specs. Like if he could calculate just one more thing, it would make her survive.

Jorgen hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He sat near the door, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles had turned white. His face was blank, but not calm. Just numb. His whole body screamed with the tension of not knowing.

Arturo and Alanik sat side-by-side, backs against the far wall. Their fingers were still interlaced. Every few minutes, Alanik would glance at Arturo. He never looked away from the same spot on the floor, his leg bouncing nonstop.

Kimmalyn was pacing, whispering soft prayers. Over and over. Sometimes she just said Spensa’s name, fingers tracing patterns across the hem of her sleeve like each stitch was a lifeline.

No one had spoken aloud in a long time.

It was all just the same question, screaming endlessly inside his skull:

Is she still alive?

Then, at exactly 0439 hours, the door opened.

They all looked up at once.

The doctor stepped through.

He looked… tired. His scrubs were stained across the chest with something dark—probably blood, maybe antiseptic. His face was shadowed. His gloves were gone, but his hands bore deep creases, the kind you only get from hours of holding someone’s life together.

Every heart in the room froze.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked around at them all—these kids. This Flight. The broken constellation orbiting their missing star. Who had already been though so much.

And then he met Jorgen’s eyes.

“She’s alive.”

The words didn’t land immediately. There was a beat—a full breath—where no one moved.

Then the reaction hit like a wave.

FM sobbed, one hard, shuddering sound that cracked her whole body. Rig let out a breath that sounded like it had been buried in his lungs for six years. Kimmalyn dropped to her knees mid-step and covered her face. Nedd swore in relief and immediately pulled her into his arms, rubbing her back as she shook. Alanik slumped sideways against Arturo, who let out a whisper that was either a prayer or a curse.

Jorgen stood. Fast. Like the words had yanked him to his feet.

“She’s alive?” he repeated, hoarse. “She made it?”

The doctor nodded. “The surgery was complicated. More than we expected. One of the rib fractures was compressing a vessel. We had to stop internal bleeding and repair the lung manually. But—yes. She made it through.”

He didn’t cry. Not yet. But he sat down hard. Shoulders slumped. Eyes glassy. His whole body exhaled like it hadn’t since the crash.

FM scrambled over. “Is she awake?”

“Not yet. She’ll stay sedated for a while. We’re giving her lungs a chance to rest. Her oxygen levels are improving, but she’s still on assisted ventilation. That’ll continue until we’re confident she can breathe fully on her own.”

“And the ribs?” Rig asked.

“Stabilized. We used titanium plating to reinforce the flail segment. It'll hurt like hell when she wakes up, but it's solid now. No more risk of paradoxical movement or puncture.”

“She’s… really okay?” Kimmalyn whispered, barely audible.

The doctor paused.

“She’s not out of the woods yet,” he said honestly. “There’s still risk of infection. She’s weak. And there may be residual damage. But she made it through surgery. And her body responded well. That’s the best outcome we could’ve hoped for.”

The room felt lighter.

Like someone had opened a window and let them breathe again.

“Can we see her?” FM asked after a few seconds, voice lighter.

“One at a time,” the doctor said. “She’s in post-op recovery now. We’ll transfer her to intensive care in an hour or two. She won’t be responsive, but you can sit with her.”

Jorgen was already halfway to the door.

The doctor stepped into his path and rested a hand on his shoulder. “She kept murmuring something under sedation,” he said quietly. “Didn’t make much sense. But she said your name more than once.”

Jorgen closed his eyes. His chest cracked.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

And then he was gone—down the hallway, heart pounding, hands trembling, walking toward the only thing that mattered.

He reached her recovery room in seconds.

It was dim and quiet.

Spensa lay in a high-tech hospital bed. Her skin was still too pale, but the oxygen mask was gone. She had a chest bandage beneath her gown, monitors hooked up to her ribs.

Machines still beeped gently, tubes still ran from her arms, and the oxygen mask still sat across her nose and mouth. But her color looked… better. Warmer. Her chest moved with assisted rhythm. Monitors blinked with steady, healthy numbers.

Jorgen sat down in the same chair from before.

He walked to her side and sat, letting his hand find hers again.

“You did it,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I knew you would.”

He reached up with his free hand and brushed her hair off her forehead, heart aching in a way he couldn't explain.

"You scared the hell out of me," he whispered, voice low and hoarse. "Again."

She didn’t stir. Not yet.

But she was here.

And that was everything.

Chapter Text

Spensa floated. Weightless.

Not in the usual way—not like flight, not like the freedom of flying curling around her ribs. No… this was numb. Cold. A kind of floating that didn’t feel like moving. It felt like… not existing.

Maybe gravity was off. Maybe reality was off. Maybe everything was off.

Somewhere, faint and far off, something beeped.

beep… beep… beep…

Her brain reached for the sound like it meant something. Like it mattered. But she couldn’t quite grab it. Couldn’t understand.

Then—

Pain.

Just a whisper of it at first. Not sharp. Not screaming. Just… there. A quiet throb deep in her chest, like something twisting under her skin. Her breathing hitched—slow and shallow—and that was when her body realized something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Everything was too heavy. Her lungs felt like they’d been filled with concrete. Her chest didn’t expand the way it was supposed to. Something tugged on her side, unfamiliar and wrong and cold. It felt like someone had has sewn a USB cord into her ribs, and kept yanking on it so see if it was plugged in right.

She tried to move.

Her fingers twitched.

Then—

White hot fire ripped through her ribs.

She gasped—and instantly choked. The breath caught halfway up her throat, sharp and useless, like trying to inhale shattered glass. Her body convulsed.

The machines still beeped. Louder now. Faster. Cutting through the silence in her mind like a blade.

beep-beep-beep-beep—

She couldn’t see. Her eyelids refused to cooperate. But her pulse thundered in her ears. Her limbs twitched weakly against tangled sheets. Her mouth was dry. Her throat burned. Her side was on fire.

And her lungs—her lungs—

They’re not working. Why the fuck are they not working.

She panicked. Fully. Mindless, relentless panic. Every breath was wrong. Too shallow. Not enough. Too tight. Her ribs wouldn’t move right. Something was pulling at her side. Every twitch made it worse. It felt like something was inside her.

She tried to scream. Nothing came out.

Only air. Only that same ragged, helpless wheeze.

And now she was awake. Fully.

Her eyes peeled open, bleary and stinging. The lights overhead hit her pupils like a hammer. Blinding white. Stabbing. The ceiling swam above her—smooth, sterile, unfamiliar.

And for a second—

She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t know who she was.

She didn’t know what the scud even happened.

Pain lanced through her again, grounding and cruel.

She gasped—and the machine beside her screamed in response. A long, shrill warning beep echoed through the room. Her heart was going too fast. Her O₂ levels were too low. The machines knew. They all knew.

Terror gripped her harder than the pain.

“Jorgen—?” she croaked, her voice gravelly and rough—like it had been sitting there, in her throat, unused for days.

No one answered.

Her head lolled to the side. The room was empty. She was alone.

No Doomslug. No Skyward Flight. No boots pounding in the room to save her.

Her chest ached—like something heavy was inside it. Moving. Shifting. Every breath stabbed deep. Her ribs felt wrong. She could feel metal under her skin. Plates. Foreign. Mechanical.

She whimpered. A stupid, helpless sound that seemed wrong, even to her own ears.

Her memories began to drip back.

The impact.
The sharp pain in her ribs.
The blood in her mouth.
The way she couldn’t even breathe.

And then Jorgen. Dropping beside her. Puller her closer. Saying her name. Voice full of—

“Jorgen,” she whispered again, weaker. “Where are you—?”

The machines answered instead. More beeping. More blinking lights.

She dragged her arm an inch across the bed. IV tubes tugged at her skin. She caught a glimpse of her own chest beneath the hospital gown—bands of white gauze. Bruises blooming like galaxies. A plastic drain stitched into her side.

Her body started to shake.

No flight suit. No pilot’s pin. No gravity around her bones.

Just a bed. Just the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She was alive. But she didn’t feel real.

Then something shifted.

Footsteps. Faint, echoing down the corridor.

A nurse entered—Spensa barely registered her until the woman leaned over, startled.

“Oh stars, she’s awake—”

Spensa flinched.

The nurse gently touched her arm. “Hey—hey, Spensa, you’re okay. You’re in the recovery wing. You’re safe. Just try not to move—”

The nurse’s eyes flicked to the monitor beside the bed. Her brow furrowed. “Heart rate’s still high… O₂’s low,” she muttered under her breath, adjusting the nasal cannula gently. “Try to stay calm, okay?” She quickly pressed a few buttons and adjusted the flow on the oxygen mask beside the bed

“What—” Spensa rasped, eyes wide. “What happened—where’s—where is—”

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re doing so well.”

But Spensa didn’t feel okay. Her vision blurred again, not from light this time, but from tears.

She hated crying.

She never cried.

But her chest was broken. Her lungs were broken. Her self felt broken.

And she was alone.

The nurse pressed a cold hand to her forehead. “You just woke up from thoracic surgery. You’ve been under sedation for over twelve hours. You’re safe now. We’re going to call your Flight in soon, okay?”

“…Flight?”

The nurse smiled. “Your Flight. Your—Jorgen, I think?”

Something inside her flinched at his name. Like her bones remembered him more than her brain did.

She blinked slowly. Her voice cracked. “He was… he found me.”

“Yes,” the nurse said. “He hasn’t left the hospital since he brought you here.”

That didn’t surprise her. But it didn’t stop the ache.

She closed her eyes. Let the pain take her under. Let the exhaustion drag her back down. But her mind stayed above the surface. Panicked. Fragile. Whispering the same thing, over and over again—

My ribs aren’t mine anymore.
I can’t fly like this.
I can’t fight like this.
I can’t protect them like this.
I’m useless.

She didn’t realize she was crying again until the nurse brushed away the warm tear sliding into her ear.

“I’ll go tell them you’re awake,” the nurse said softly.

And Spensa—barely clinging to herself—just nodded.

The door hissed shut, and the silence it left behind was louder than the machines. It was like a vacuum, sucking all the sound right out of the room. She was alone with the beeping again. Alone with the thing in her chest that wasn't her.

Her gaze drifted down, past the IV lines taped to her arm, to the stark white bandages wrapping her torso. They were a cage. She tried to take a deeper breath, to prove she still could, and the fire ignited again—a sharp, metallic protest deep in her lung. She choked it back, tears of frustration joining the ones of pain.

Scud, she was weak. This wasn't her. She was the girl who flew through the stars.

Who flew into the nowhere and survived. Who fought until her knuckles were raw and her ship was in pieces.

Now she couldn't even breathe without a machine screaming about it.

The monitor kept up its steady, mocking rhythm.

Beep-beep-beep… beep… beep… beep…

Still alive, unfortunately. But it didn’t feel like living. Just a thing in a bed, hooked to wires, with a wrongness in her chest and pain lacing through her body with each ragged breath.

She strained her hearing, pushing past the low, almost inaudible hum of the lights and the constants beeping of the machines beside her, listening for what should have been there: the low murmur of familiar voices in the hall, the impatient tap of a boot, or maybe even a small flute from Doomslug. The sounds of her people. The sounds of Platfrom Prime.

But there was nothing. Only the distant, clinical sounds of a place that wasn't home.

He hasn’t left the hospital.

So where was he?

The thought was a fresh ache, sharper than the ones taking over her body. If he was here, he would be here. In this room. His presence would have been the first thing she felt—a solid, rational anchor in the chaos. Jorgen didn't wait in hallways.

Unless he couldn't.

The rest of the memories were like shards of glass, cutting her apart from the inside. His voice, tight with a fear she'd never heard from him. The warmth of his hands on her face. The way he held her while unconsciousness pulled her under. The blood.

Scud, there had been so much blood. Hers.

What if the nurse was wrong? What if he *had* left? What if he’d been called away for some… Admiral duties? What if he’d seen the damage, the mess of her, how *weak* she was, and realized…

I’m useless.

The thought wasn’t just a whisper now—It was a cold, hard fact. It settled into the spaces between her broken ribs. A fighter who couldn't fight. A pilot without a ship. A weapon that had shattered in its own hand.

What was she now?

A sob hitched in her ruined chest—a painful, gasping thing that made the monitors shrill a warning. She clenched her teeth, biting it back. She wouldn't. She would not.

She was Spensa Nightshade. She defied stars.

She turned her face into the sterile white pillow—away from the empty doorway, and waited. The only thing that came was the sound of her own struggling breath and the steady, persistent beep of the machine keeping count of a heart that still beat in a place where no one could hear it.

──────── ✧ ────────

The coffee was cold before Jorgen even took his second sip. It was… awful.

Not bad in the usual way—stats, it tasted like it had been sitting in a pot for too long. This stuff tasted like it had been brewed in hellfire,strained through carbon fiber, and served with a side of regret and disappointment.

But Jorgen didn’t complain.

Complaining felt wrong. It felt too loud, too normal. Too selfish, somehow, to demand better coffee when Spensa was lying in a bed upstairs with tubes in her arms and bruises all over her skin. The world could have burned down around him and he wouldn’t have said a word, as long as she came out of that room alive.

He sat at the corner of the table table with a cup cradled in his hands, watching steam curl from the surface like it was supposed to mean something.

They were sitting in the tiny hospital cafeteria—scud, if it could even be called that—just him, Arturo, and Nedd, hunched over metal chairs like their bones didn’t quite know how to hold themselves up anymore. None of them had spoken in over ten minutes.

Just the occasional clink of a plastic spoon against a disposable cup, or Nedd muttering something under his breath about the coffee tasting like burnt algae rations.

It wasn’t funny.

But Jorgen almost laughed anyway.

They’d been holed up in the hospital for almost two entire days. They’d come here because someone—maybe FM (“She wouldn’t want you to collapse from hunger,” she’d said. “Go. I’ll call if anything changes.”)—had reminded them that they hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in hours. And they hadn’t. The sealed algae protein bar in front of him hadn’t been touched. He’d just… sat there. Holding the bitter cup in his hands like it might anchor him to the moment somehow. Like it might be real.

Jorgen didn’t even remember walking to the cafeteria. Arturo had pulled him up off the waiting room couch with a firm hand on his shoulder. Nedd had grumbled about starvation and low blood sugar.

But food felt like a betrayal when Spensa was still fighting for every breath.

Still. Jorgen drank.

Not because he wanted to. Because he had to.

He hadn’t wanted the coffee. He hadn’t wanted the bitter excuse for caffeine Arturo and Nedd shoved into his hand. He hadn’t wanted food, or rest, or the dull ache of normalcy. He only wanted one thing—Spensa, alive and safe.

And even then, it didn’t help. It didn’t make the tremble in his chest go away, or the memory of her broken body in his arms.

Spensa wasn’t completely out of the woods yet.

Just because the surgery was over didn’t mean the fear was. It was still in his chest, gnawing and pulsing, wrapping around every rib like a noose.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t stop replaying it.

He could still feel the weight of her hand in his.

Still hear the rattle in her throat.

Still see her blood staining the ground beneath her.

Still smell it.

Still remember the way she couldn’t breathe.
Still remember the look in her eyes when she’d reached for him like he could save her—
The way she’d looked at him, wide-eyed and terrified, and said—

"I can't—"

He swallowed audibly. His stomach twisted.

He took a sip. It burned. Bitter. Wrong.

“She’s breathing now,” Arturo said softly, like he was trying to remind them all.

“She’s alive,” Nedd muttered.

Jorgen didn’t say anything.

She was breathing. But not with him.Not beside him.

Arturo finally looked up. “We should head back.”

Jorgen blinked, trying to shake the memory, the nausea, the helplessness. He nodded. Slowly. Wordlessly. He didn’t know if it was agreement or resignation.

He set the cup down, the bitter smell rising one last time, and glanced toward the exit.

His legs felt heavy, like he was carrying all the fear, all the helplessness, all the guilt in his bones. And he was.

But he had to go back. She needed him. Alive. Breathing. Not just in memory.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then stood. The plastic cup went into the bin with a clatter. He didn’t look back.

The hallways felt wrong without the sound of Spensa’s voice bouncing off the walls.
She would’ve complained about the fluorescent lighting. Said the paint smelled like chemicals.

Instead, all that remained was the low hum of air circulation and the distant, rhythmic beeping of machines. Each beep was like a tiny hammer against his skull, a reminder of the silence from her room. He’d started to hate the sound. It was the sound of waiting. The sound of not knowing.

They reached the waiting area just as a nurse stepped out, blinking in surprise.

“Oh,” she said. “Good timing. She’s awake.”

The words didn’t register at first.

Jorgen froze. “She’s—?”

“She woke up about ten minutes ago,” the nurse said with a small smile. “Still groggy. But she’s stable. I was just coming to find you.”

Something in his chest snapped.

He was already moving.

──────── ✧ ────────

The door was already half open. Jorgen didn’t knock. He couldn’t.

And then he saw her.

The breath left his body like someone had punched him in the gut.

Spensa lay in the hospital bed, propped up slightly, her face pale and drawn. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lashes trembling against cheeks bruised with purple shadows. A cluster of wires and sensors trailed from her chest and arms, IV fluids dripping steadily beside her. Her hospital gown hung loose around her collarbones, revealing the edge of the thick bandage across her chest.

There was a drain still stitched into her side. He could see the tube. The machine it fed into.

And she looked so small.

But she was awake.

Barely. But awake.

She turned her head toward him slowly, like it took every ounce of strength she had, her split, cracked lips parting as her eyes adjusted to the light.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

“Spensa,” he said, whispering her name like a prayer.

The monitor spiked, beeping faster.

“…Jerkface?” Her voice was raw. Barely above a whisper. But it was hers.

He nearly fell apart right there.

Three strides and he was at her bedside, dropping into the chair like his knees wouldn’t hold him. His hands hovered, afraid to touch her, until the need to feel her outweighed everything else.

He caught her hand. Warm. Real.

Stars, she was real.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, half in disbelief.

She nodded, barely. Her fingers twitched against his.

That tiny pressure broke something in him.

“You—” He shook his head, breath shuddering. “Stars, Spensa. You scared the hell out of me.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering through her expression. “I… didn’t mean to.”

“You couldn’t breathe.” His words came faster now, ragged. “I—” His throat locked up. He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, shaking.

Spensa blinked, startled, her eyes widening. “Hey. Jerkface.” Her voice was still hoarse but urgent now. “I’m okay. I’m here.”

“You weren’t,” he said, so quiet it sounded like a prayer. “You weren’t here and I didn’t know if you were ever coming back. And I just—I just sat there helpless while they worked on you and I thought—”

And then the tears hit him.

He ducked his head, pressing his forehead against the headboard, trying not to let her feel how badly he was shaking. “You scared me so much,” he said, voice rough. “Do you have any idea—” He cut himself off before he could finish, because the end of that sentence was I thought I’d lost you.

Spensa stared at him, her chest tight—not from the bandages this time, but from the sight of Jorgen crying.

Her Jerkface. Her rock. The calm in the storm.

Falling apart.

She shifted her free hand—the movement slow and almost painful—and reached for him, brushing her fingers against his curls until he lifted his head. His face was wet, eyes red-rimmed, and Spensa’s heart clenched so hard it hurt worse than her ribs.

“Don’t cry,” she rasped, sounding utterly wrecked.

He let out a sound that sounded somewhat like a laugh, though it broke halfway through. “You almost died, Spensa. I think I get to cry a little.” But his hands still shook as he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “I can’t—Spensa, I can’t breathe when I think about it. I love you so much it feels like—like it’s going to tear me in half.”

Spensa blinked at him, tears welling in her own eyes now. “You stayed… the whole time?”

“I never left the hospital since I got you here.” His voice was wrecked. “Not for a second.”

The room went quiet except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Jorgen reached up, cupping her face like she might disappear if he didn’t hold on.

“You can’t do that again,” he said. “You can’t just—just almost die on me. I can’t survive it.”

Spensa’s throat closed up. She had a dozen sarcastic replies on her tongue—her usual defense—but none of them would come.

Because he wasn’t just scared. He was broken. And that broke her too.

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

Jorgen let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, then leaned forward until his forehead touched hers.

She could feel his tears on her skin. His shaking breaths.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed me too,” she rasped, and this time he actually laughed—soft, helpless, like it was pulled out of him against his will.

He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Her hair. Everywhere he could reach without jostling her too much.

And then he just held her hand again, resting his head against the mattress, letting the tears fall freely.

Spensa stayed quiet, letting him.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, over the IV tape, back and forth in circlse. Slow and careful, like he was afraid even touching her too roughly would undo the work the medics had done.

He bent his head, and before he could stop himself, pressed the lightest kiss to the inside of her wrist—right where her pulse fluttered weakly against his lips. “But you did it,” he whispered. “You survived. That’s all you ever had to do.”

Her breath hitched. A tear slid down her temple.

Jorgen leaned closer, kissing it away before he could stop himself. Then another.

Then her hairline. “I love you,” he murmured, not caring that his voice was shaking. “More than anything. More than the whole damn galaxy.”

She blinked at him, letting the words sink in, tracing his face with her eyes like she needed proof he was really there. Her gaze drifted down over her chest, taking in the white gauze, the plastic drain stitched into her side, the tubes snaking across the bed. She swallowed hard, throat dry.

“I… I feel… horrible,” she murmured, voice shaking. “Everything hurts. I can’t… remember what happened. I don’t…”

Jorgen’s hand tightened on hers. “It’s okay. I’ll tell you everything. Just—breathe first. Just a little.”

“You… you have to tell me,” she rasped, voice small. “What happened?”

“You broke four ribs,” he said gently. “One of them punctured your lung. You had… a flail segment.”

Her brow furrowed faintly, like she was trying to remember the term.

“It means the ribs weren’t holding together anymore,” he explained quietly. “A portion of your ribcage detached from the rest and moved independently. Every time you tried to breathe, part of your chest was just… collapsing.”

She blinked slowly, the horror dawning on her face.

“They had to do a thoracotomy,” he added softly. “Surgical incision into your chest. They put plates on your ribs. Drained the blood. Stitched the lung. You…” His voice broke. “You almost died.”

Spensa stared at him, her lips parted slightly, and then whispered, “You stayed.”

He nodded once, unable to speak for a moment.

“I stayed,” he finally managed, voice hoarse. “I was there when you went into surgery. I was there when they told me you made it. I was there when they said you might not wake up for a while.” He looked down at their joined hands, thumb stroking over her knuckles. “I stayed here for days, Spensa. I couldn’t… I couldn’t go anywhere. Not until I saw you open your eyes.”

Her breath hitched, and he saw tears welling up again.

“You should have seen yourself,” he said, almost a whisper. “When I found you—” His voice cracked, the image flashing behind his eyes so vividly he almost couldn’t go on.

“There was so much blood. You weren’t breathing right. I—I was holding you and you were going limp and I didn’t know if you were going to—”

He stopped, pressing the palm of his hand to his eyes for a second before letting in a trembling, broken breath.

“I’ve been scared before,” he said quietly. “But nothing like that. I would’ve given anything, Spensa. Anything, just to get you to breathe.”

She stared at him, tears sliding silently into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and he shoo his head.

“Don’t,” he said fiercely, gripping her hand a little tighter. “Don’t apologize. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

Her eyes searched his face, like she was trying to find the anchor she’d been missing since she’d woken up twenty minutes ago.

“You saved me,” she said softly.

“You save me every day,” he replied. “This time it was just my turn.”

Something in her expression shifted (softened? hardened? glistened with the weight of unshed tears?) and she squeezed his hand weakly.

Jorgen leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers, his other hand brushing away her tears.

“I love you,” he said, the words breaking out of him. “I don’t care if you can’t fly for a while, or if you’re stuck in this bed for weeks. You’re alive. You’re mine. That’s all I need.”

Her lips trembled, and she whispered, “Say it again.”

So he did.

Over and over until she finally drifted off again, her breathing a little easier this time, her hand still clutched in his.

Because for the first time since she’d woken, she wasn’t scared.

He was here.

Nothing—not fear, nor pain, nor pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis itself could take this moment away.

And maybe her chest hurt, and maybe she was weak and bandaged and breathing shallow—but she was still alive.

And Jorgen was still holding on to her like she was his whole sky.

──────── ✧ ────────

When Spensa finally drifted back to sleep, her hand still tangled in his, Jorgen sat there for a while longer.

Just breathing. Letting the weight of the last few days finally ease off his chest.

She was alive. She’d looked him in the eyes. Talked to him.

Stars, she’s even squeezed his hand.

He almost didn’t want to move, but the Flight deserved to know.

Carefully—carefully—he laid her hand back against the blanket and stood. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles one last time before forcing himself to step away.

The door clicked softly behind him.

The waiting room was exactly how he’d left it—only worse.

FM sat curled up on a chair, arms around her knees, eyes red. Nedd and Arturo were leaning against the wall, too quiet to be themselves. Kimmalyn was whispering a prayer under her breath, her helmet clutched to her chest like a talisman.

And Rig—poor Rig—was pacing so hard he might have worn a path into the tile. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his hair sticking up in every direction like he’d been tearing at it.

The moment Jorgen stepped in, all six pairs of eyes locked on him.

No one said a word.

Jorgen swallowed, his throat tight. He hadn’t realized until that second how badly they needed this. How starved for hope they were.

“She’s awake,” he said.

Just like that. Two words, and the whole room shifted.

FM let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, covering her mouth with both hands as tears spilled freely. Kimmalyn broke into a prayer of thanks so loud it startled Nedd, who immediately grinned through his own tears.

“Oh, thank the stars,” Arturo breathed, leaning back against the wall with a shaky exhale.

Rig froze mid-step.

“What?” he said, voice cracking.
“She’s awake,” Jorgen repeated, and this time his own voice wavered, the words softer, more reverent. “She’s tired, but—she talked to me. She’s okay.”

Rig’s face crumpled. He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Jorgen in a hug so fierce it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“She’s okay,” Rig said against his shoulder, voice breaking. “Oh stars. Stars, I thought—”

“I know,” Jorgen murmured, gripping him back.

FM joined them next, then Kimmalyn, then Nedd — until suddenly the entire Flight was there, all of them clinging to each other, the exhaustion and fear finally spilling over into tears and shaky laughter.

When they finally pulled apart, Arturo wiped his face and tried for a smirk.

“When can we see her?”

“Tomorrow,” Jorgen said. “She needs to rest. She just had surgery.”

“We can wait,” FM said softly, though her eyes were shining.

They waited until morning, just like Jorgen had asked, but none of them really slept.

Nedd had passed out on two chairs pushed together, snoring softly with his arms folded over his chest. FM had fallen asleep against Rig’s shoulder. Kimmalyn had fallen asleep next to them. Arturo had spent the night standing by the window, staring out at the debris field, jaw clenched like he was daring the world to try him.

And Rig had sat with his datapad in his lap, staring at it for hours without touching it once.

When the nurse finally came back to tell them Spensa was ready for visitors, they all shot to their feet at once.

Jorgen went in first.

She was awake again—more alert this time, though still pale and tired-looking. Her hair was messy, sticking out in every direction. Her lips were dry, her face and arms still bruised, but she looked at him and grinned.

“About time you got back, Jerkface.”

He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he just took her hand and pressed a kiss to her
knuckles.

“They’re here,” he said softly.

Spensa blinked, then smiled faintly. “Bring them in.”

When he opened the door, Skyward Flight didn’t wait for permission.

Rig went first, practically sprinting to the bed, his datapad nearly falling from his pocket. “Spensa!”

Spensa tilted her head toward him, her grin widening despite the obvious pain in her ribs. “Rodge.”

And then he just—collapsed forward and hugged her. Very gently.

“Careful,” Jorgen warned, but Spensa was already laughing—quietly, but still laughing.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not made of glass.”

“You literally have metal plates holding your ribs together right now,” FM said from behind Rig, her voice wobbling as she tried to keep it together.

“That’s just called an upgrade,” Spensa said.

FM burst out laughing and crying at the same time, rushing forward to place a hand on Spensa’s shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

“You almost died,” FM said.

Spensa didn’t argue.

Instead, she looked around at all of them—every member of Skyward Flight crammed into the room, faces soft, eyes shining—and let herself feel it.

The relief.

The love.

The way they’d all waited, and hoped, and held on until she came back to them.

And stars—she wouldn’t have it any other way.

──────── ✧ ────────

The room was quiet now.

Skyward Flight had finally trickled out one by one, leaving soft words and touches on Spensa’s shoulder, promises to visit tomorrow, jokes about bringing real food so she wouldn’t have to eat hospital algae sludge.

Jorgen stayed.

He hadn’t moved from his spot by the bed since the moment they’d all left.

Spensa was fighting to stay awake, her eyelids heavy, but her hand never left his.

“You’re really not going to leave, are you?” she asked drowsily.

“No.” His voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath. “Not tonight.”

Spensa gave him a small, tired grin. “Good. Didn’t want to wake up and think this was a hallucination.”

“It’s not.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

For a moment, there was just silence between them—the good kind. The kind that wasn’t heavy anymore.

“Jerkface?” she murmured.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes were half-closed now, her breathing evening out, but her voice was soft and sure. “I’m glad I came back.”

He swallowed hard, his chest tight. “Me too, Spensa.”

She smiled at him one last time before her eyes slid shut and she drifted off, her fingers still curled weakly around his.

Later, when the steady rhythm of her breathing told him she was finally sleeping deeply—not uncomfortable, not in pain, but resting—Jorgen let out a long, shaky breath and pressed his forehead to the headboard.

His hand stayed locked with hers, his thumb still tracing mindless circles against her skin.

“You scared me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet room.

He closed his eyes, the words spilling out now, no longer trapped in his chest where
they’d been for days.

“You terrified me, Spensa. You have no idea what it was like, sitting here, not knowing if you’d wake up, wondering if I’d ever hear your voice again. Stats, I couldn’t breathe half the time. I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

His shoulders shook once, but he didn’t stop.

“I love you,” he said, the words quiet but fierce, like a vow. “You matter more than anything. More than all of it. I don’t care what anyone says. if it ever comes down to saving you or following orders, I’ll choose you. Every time.”

His forehead stayed pressed to the headboard, his other hand curling into a fist against his thigh.

“I’m yours,” he whispered. “I always will be. You’re it for me, Spensa Nightshade. The only one I want. The only one who makes this whole thing bearable. The only one who makes me feel like me.”

He squeezed her hand gently.

“So don’t you dare leave me again.”

Spensa stirred faintly in her sleep, as if she’d heard him somehow, her fingers twitching against his.

Jorgen leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face, letting his hand linger against her temple.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

For a long time after that, he just sat there—holding her hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest, letting the weight of the last few days finally lift.

Eventually, his head dropped against the mattress beside her, exhaustion catching up to him.

But his hand never left hers.

✧ ✧ ✧

I love you.
You scared me.
You matter more than anything.
I’m yours.
I always will be.