The real diagnosis

The hospital's blue polyester blanket offered little comfort, its thin fabric a poor substitute for the warmth of peace. Yet, the heavy, anchoring presence of Vic at my side compensated for the sterile chill of the private exam room. We occupied the narrow confines of the gurney together, its rubber wheels locked and silent within the privacy Ronan had secured for us. Vic was utterly spent, his sleep deep and restorative, his soft, rhythmic exhale brushing my collarbone. It was the only weight I welcomed, a reassuring counterpoint to the dread that cinched my lungs.

I felt a bizarre envy for his oblivion. My own body refused to capitulate to rest. The residual exhaustion from the last two days had morphed into an energy, fueled by the muted clamor seeping in beneath the closed door—the muted conversations, the distant coughs, staff screaming out for crash carts, nurses calling security to come to the ER, and the relentless thrum of the institution. My physical anchors were the thin bundle of wires taped to my chest and arm, connecting me to the trio of sticky monitor pads. The machine beside my head offered a quiet, measured beep… beep…

My eyes tracked the cracks in the ceiling, a meaningless pattern that did little to distract from the lingering ghost of the cold, hard surface of the PET and CT scanners. The PET and CT were complete. We had rendered the necessary images, injected the contrast, and now the truth existed, digitized and waiting. I found myself in a state of excruciating suspension, balanced on the verge of life-altering news. I gently shifted my hand, my fingers interlacing with Vic’s where they rested against my hip. He muttered something low and indistinct in his sleep. I stayed perfectly still, listening to the dual, necessary rhythms: his solid breathing, and the monitor’s sterile confirmation of my survival.

He hadn't left my side for nearly forty-eight hours nor had me out of his sight for long, surviving on vending machine rations and uncomfortable chairs. Thankfully, he had real food before we arrived here. Now, finally, he was claiming his deserved rest.

The silence was broken by the squeak of approaching footwear, and my heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, frantic counter-rhythm to the machine's steady beep. Vic sensed the shift. Though his eyes remained closed, his arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer to the familiar scent of his shirt.

“We’re okay,” he mumbled, his voice a gravelly comfort ripped from sleep before falling back asleep.

A brief, polite knock preceded the door opening. Ronan and his nurse Pia arrived back. Ronan held the results on a slim tablet, his expression guarded but notably softer than before. Pia offered a small, sincere smile—a vital sign of hope.

Ronan looked straight at me. “We have the results back from the PET and CT scans. There’s nothing of concern within your organs and bones. However, I think due to your situation with Patrick, the exhaustion and dehydration got the best of you.”

The wave of relief that crashed over me was so immediate and overwhelming it threatened to undo me. It felt like a deep, calcified vice around my entire being had been shattered. My eyes blurred immediately. I buried my face into Vic’s shoulder, a single sharp sigh escaped. The sound jolted Vic fully awake.

“Negative?” Vic’s voice cracked, raw with terror and exhaustion.

“Negative,” Ronan confirmed. “Structurally, based on the imaging, you are clear. However, the symptoms—uncontrollable shivering and sleeping—were profoundly real. The physical cause isn't a structural problem to your bones but mental trauma.”

Ronan's expression became one of focused empathy, his gaze holding mine. “What you experienced wasn’t being cold. It was a severe, acute response to trauma. The terror of knowing Patrick was loose as he escaped and was in extreme proximity to you, coupled with the finality of his death, combined with the physical strain of dehydration while exploring Auckland, it overloaded your central nervous system. Your body staged a complete emotional shutdown, a kind of seizure in response to overwhelming anxiety.”

The explanation resonated, chilling and undeniable. The fear of an unseen physical illness was replaced by the hollow understanding that the psychological wounds ran deeper than I had permitted myself to acknowledge.

“I’m moving to discharge you,” Ronan stated. “Are you still seeing your therapist?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then I strongly urge you to begin discussing everything that dealt with Patrick over the last two days as soon as you can. You’re physically clear, but your mind needs dedicated recovery.”

“I agree,” I said. Vic said nothing, only pulling me tighter as the tension of the last two days finally dissolving.

Pia stepped forward. “That is truly excellent news. I’ll prepare your discharge papers now.”

“Vic, you’re the unofficial but officially unofficial caretaker of Deppgrl when you get back to the hotel,” Ronan said.

Ronan reviewed the aftercare instructions: rest as needed, eat throughout the day, stay hydrated but only use two rehydration packets a day – one in the morning and one in the afternoon – and to relax as much as possible. Vic and I nodded

After Ronan and Pia left, Vic did not move. He didn't leave the gurney until I was officially discharged.  Pia returned to peel away the wires and sticky monitor pads. Vic helped me into my clothes, and we left the blanket and the commotion behind. Stepping out of the room and into the main corridor was like re-entering the world after a long, blinding immersion.

The hospital's air, though filtered and cooled, felt like a rush of freedom. Vic’s hand never left the small of my back as we navigated the final corridors, his touch grounding and protective.

We passed through the automatic glass doors, and the late afternoon light of Auckland washed over us, weak but real. The city sounds—the rush of traffic, the low, wet sigh of tires on pavement—were overwhelming in their normalcy.

Agent Riley's black SUV was waiting precisely where it should have been; at the ER entrance. Riley, a familiar face with an air of contained competence, offered a tight nod as he held the door open for me. I slid onto the cushioned seat, a profound luxury after the gurney's vinyl. Vic followed but from the other side, but his movement was visibly slow and stiff. He had to use the frame of the door to lever himself in, his joints protesting audibly.

“Tough climb, old man?” I murmured, reaching for his hand.

He settled in, letting his head rest against the window for a second before turning to me. “That gurney was built to punish the sleep-deprived. I’ll be stiff for a few days.” He gave my hand a tired squeeze. “But I’ll take stiff over scared any day.”

Riley pulled away silently. We drove in comfortable silence, Vic’s arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, his chin resting lightly on my head. I watched the city blur past feeling like a foreigner that I am working in a country I didn’t know nor understand.

Riley pulled up at our hotel by a discreet side curb. Riley helped me get out of the car as Vic was slowly getting out of the car. I am thankful we had Riley as he ensured I was steady on my feet.

“I’ll take it from here, Riley. Thanks,” Vic said, rubbing his lower back.

“Get some rest,” Riley replied, nodding to me. “We’re right here when you need us.”

We walked inside of the hotel, holding hands. We took the elevator up to the sixth floor, got out and headed to a private elevator where Cosmos and Lorraine were waiting for us. They let us in and Vic hit the button for our floor and suit.

When we got to our floor, we saw three armed agents outside of our door. Vic didn't waste time as he pulled out the electronic key card from his wallet, unlocked the door, and let me step into the sanctuary of our room first. He followed, closing the door firmly, then immediately engaging the series of complex locking mechanisms we had installed ourselves—the double deadbolts, the metal bar brace, the electronic tamper sensors. The clunk and snap of the locks were the final, satisfying signal of security.

The room smelled faintly of clean laundry and the distant aroma of the ocean.

“Shower. Now,” I stated, already unbuttoning my shirt.

Vic chuckled, undoing his own belt. “You read my mind. I feel like I’m wearing the hospital.”

We stripped and got in the shower, forgetting that the shirts were in there already. The rush of hot water was a luxurious physical balm, washing away the tension and the lingering smell of antiseptic. As we showered, we unplugged the drain so the water from our soaking shirts could drain as well as take the hospital scent with it. We rinsed the laundry detergent out of the shirts, kneading the fabric until the water ran clear. The shirts came out clean and the grease from the birria tacos were no longer there. We took our time in the hot shower, letting the steam and the heat seep into our muscles. I leaned against his chest, listening to the solid beat of his heart.

“Promise me you’ll call your therapist tomorrow,” Vic murmured against my hair.

“I promise,” I said as I washed my hair for the third time before applying conditioner. I scrubbed my body with soap as Vic used another bar of soap to wash his hair and body…I could tell he was exhausted. We rinsed off.

Finally, we turned off the tap. We dried off, and the shower curtain was left open so we could hang the shirts over the shower rod to dry overnight without a barrier. I walked to the counter, took out my brush, and began the familiar, calming ritual of brushing and braiding my hair, a habit that always settled my nerves. I hung up my towel, brushed my teeth, applied deodorant, and headed straight for the bed.

As I got to the bed, I saw it: a small, cream-colored envelope on my pillow.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.

Vic, who was hanging his towel on the rack, looked over. “Looks like some kind of note.”

I opened it. Inside was a handwritten note from Cosmos and Lorraine: “Dear Deppgrl, We very sorry to hear that you had an emergency. We and the staff are so relieved to know you are back with us and hoping you’re doing well now. Please let us know if either you or Vic need anything. We hope you feel much better very soon. Warmly, Cosmos and Lorraine”

The gesture was kind, but the thought of a note handled by multiple people resting where I put my face instantly broke my peace.

“No,” I decided instantly, dropping the card into the waste bin with a decisive thump. I stripped the pillowcase off the pillow and tossed it onto the floor in the pile of the clothes we wore to the hospital. “I don’t like things that have passed through many hands placed on where I am going to sleep.”

Vic came over and watched me find a fresh, clean pillowcase from the closet. He didn't argue. He knew this level of detail was part of my coping mechanism.

“Good call,” he said.

I adjusted the fresh pillow, smoothing the cotton. We folded the bedding further down to the foot of the bed so we could climb into bed. Once comfortable, we pulled up just the sheet.

The stillness was thick, but not the same sterile dread as the hospital. This was a quiet charged with exhaustion. I lay on my back, watching the shadows deepen in the room.

Ten minutes later, I shifted, my voice a quiet intrusion. “I can’t sleep.”

Vic exhaled slowly, the sound rough. “I can’t either.” He rolled toward me, his face close, his eyes reflecting the soft ambient light filtering through the window. “I’m too keyed up.”

I reached for him, rolling fully to face him. I kissed him, a long, deep kiss that tasted like steam and relief. As the kiss ended, I stretched my hand down to his hardening dick.

He gasped, a deep, immediate sound of pleasure. He cupped the back of my neck, pulling me back to his mouth. “Wait,” he whispered, his voice thick, his eyes searching mine. “Tell me, amore. Are you really wanting me, or are you just trying to forget everything?”

I held his gaze, my hand gripping him. “I want you. More than anything,” I told him, the truth of it solid and immediate. “I need you to remind me I’m here. Now.”

He smiled then, a flash of pure, loving relief, and kissed me hard. I began to stroke his dick, pulling him toward me. When he was ready, he spread my legs, pushed his large dick into my pussy, and started thrusting deep in me, slowly and gently.

“God, that’s good,” he muttered, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing ragged.

He picked up his pace. The long, slow tension of the hospital was finally, forcefully released in a building storm of pressure and heat. In no time, we climaxed, and he shot his cum in me.

He caught his breath for a second, his body heavy and still on top of mine, before he lifted his head and started sucking and pinching my nipples. He let out a low groan, and then, without warning, he began to thrust his dick in and out of me again. I moaned, the pleasure almost too much after the intensity of the day. “Don’t stop, Vic. Please, don’t stop,” I begged him.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice raw, his movements becoming more animal and driven. “Not until I can’t cum anymore.” We came again, a massive, shuddering climax that stole the breath from both of us. He shot his cum in me, his body shaking with the force of it.

Driven by a frantic, urgent need to reaffirm life and presence, we spent the next few hours having passionate sex throughout the room. We left the bed for the leather couch, where I took control in Cowgirl position, rocking and grinding with desperate energy. The momentum drew us toward the large bay window; with the curtains wide open, he lifted me and pressed me against the glass in a tight Standing Missionary, driving into me hard and fast, indifferent to the dark world outside. We didn’t care if people on the street could see us nor people in the other sky rises nearby. Finally, seeking a different sensation, we moved to the hard, cool surface of the bathroom counter. I sat on the counter edge, pulling him into me as he was controlling the speed and the angle as he stood between my legs, driving into me until the echoes of the hospital were completely silenced by the sounds of skin and breath

We finally returned to the bed, collapsing onto the sheets. Vic moved over me, his powerful dick driving deep inside me for the last time this night. This final time was a quiet force, a powerful, steady rhythm that settled deep in my core, less frantic than the earlier passion and more profound. As the final climax broke over us, Vic's entire body seized. His groan was deep and primal as his long, shuddering orgasm began, filling me with a final, load of cum. The release was a deep, powerful draining torrent of cum, the culmination of all the tension we had carried; his muscles continued to contract and release, his whole frame trembling for several minutes as his dick twitched and pulsed inside me until he was completely empty of cum. He collapsed forward, his great weight sinking onto me, a final, comforting anchor.

He finally pulled out of me and laid down next to me as he pulled me into his arms, tucking me against his chest.

“Do you think you can sleep now, amore?” he asked, his voice rough but deeply content.

“Yes, Papa” I answered, the word a soft sigh.

He smiled, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Good. I can too, amore.”

He pulled me closer to him, pulled up the sheets to cover us, and we fell asleep.