The thing about nightmares, Isla thought, was that you always woke up.

In the months after Monaco, Isla would jolt awake, her heart hammering its way out of her body. She became an early riser. She'd make tea and go on a walk, or curl up on the couch and read a book. Once, when Isla was feeling inspired, she even went to the gym with Tiff (a mistake, given that she couldn't walk the next day).

Yes, Isla thought, you always woke up from nightmares.

But there was no waking up from this.

Burning car. Smashed barrier. People screaming. Isla saw it all in camera flashes. Her knees wobbled, and it took her a moment to realize that she was standing, that at some point she must have risen to her feet.

Matthew was in that car.

Even now, Isla didn't know why she'd stayed in Abu Dhabi. All she knew was that on the way to the airport, she'd thought of what Matthew's face would look like when he mounted the podium — flushed with triumph, champagne-drunk — and she'd asked the driver to turn the car around.

Now, Isla understood why.

Something had brought her here. Someone wanted her to be with Matthew right now. No matter what happened.

Isla hurtled down the stairs. "Matthew!"

She shoved people blindly, stumbling for the track. Someone tried to stop her — a pit crew member? — but she batted him away. Terror ripped through her. She hurtled a fence, her lungs burning, with either smoke or sprinting or both.

Two uniformed figures were pulling someone from the blaze. Paramedics? Yes; Isla could see their badges. A stretcher materialized, and even from this distance, Isla could tell that the person being loaded onto it was in bad shape.

Isla sprinted for the ambulance.

"Matt!"

The figure stirred. A paramedic said something to Isla, his voice sharp, but she ignored him. She fumbled for Matthew's hand.

"Matt?"

"Red," Matthew croaked. "Stay back."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Don't—" Matthew choked, his breath rattling like stones in a tin can. "Don't. Want. You—" Another wet cough. "More. Nightmares."

Her heart gave a painful squeeze. "Matthew, I don't care. Don't you get it? I would gladly have nightmares for the rest of my life, if it meant that I got to stay by your side. I belong here. I belong with you."

People lifted the stretcher into an ambulance. Isla scrambled in afterwards, and this time, nobody tried to stop her. Matthew's eyelids fluttered.

"Isla..."

"Let me stay this time," she said.

This couldn't be Monaco all over again. She'd been a ghost for weeks, wandering through the corridors of her life, unable to really feel anything real. She still had nightmares. She still avoided Sebastián's brother, Emilio.

She couldn't do anything to help Sebastián; that would never change. But this time could be different.

Matthew looked agonized. She could see the war raging inside of him, the desire to protect her battling with the knowledge that he'd stopped her once before, and things had ended badly. Isla would go if he asked her to. They both knew it. But she hoped...

She hoped Matthew knew her better than that.

"Please," Isla whispered. "Let me stay."

He swallowed. "Okay."

Relief rushed through her. "Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"I love you," she said.

Matthew gave her a stern look. "Not. Going. To die."

A choked laugh escaped her. "I know. I just wanted to tell you."

Matthew's eyes fixed on her face, a brilliant blue, and Isla saw limitless July skies, the kind that made you want to stretch out on the grass and forget the rest of the world. His lips moved, but only a rasping noise came out.

"It's okay," Isla murmured. "Save your breath."

Isla pulled back — to call for a paramedic and maybe a crash cart, since she could detect the beginning of a vagus pulse — but Matthew shook his head, his expression urgent. He squeezed her hand.

I love you, he mouthed. So much.

"I know." Tears sprung to her eyes. "I know, Matt."

Matthew held her gaze. There was something desperate in his eyes — as if he was trying to memorize her face — and hot pressure built in her chest. Isla leaned down to kiss his forehead, trying to ignore the way he smelled of iron and blood.

"Stay awake, my love," Isla whispered. "Focus on me."

Matthew nodded, eyes fluttering.

And Isla — who had never been religious — sent out a silent prayer.

The waiting was the worst part.

Isla stared blankly at the wall. The hospital staff had offered her myriad activities — board games, cards, puzzles, sudoku — but she'd turned all of them down. She'd learned the hard way that if you did an activity while stressed, you began to associate it with that stressful event. She'd never be able to touch knitting needles or make brownies again.

So she waited.

And waited.

People began to trickle in. Cedro and Noah arrived first, still dressed in their uniforms from the race. Cedro passed her a coffee.

"He'll be okay," Cedro murmured, gripping her shoulder. "He always is."

Isla nodded, a lump in her throat.

Six hours passed.

Then ten.

Matthew's family arrived. They'd caught a red-eye flight out of London, and they stumbled into the hospital dishevelled, smelling of cheap pretzels and stale air. Benedict had promptly shouted at a nurse about a broken water fountain. Melissa had apologized to the nurse and then went off in search of a new water fountain.

Effie had taken one look at Isla and burst into tears.

"Were you with him?" Effie had asked, wiping at her eyes. "Was he alone?"

Isla had been tempted to shake her. You should have been with him, she wanted to say. You should have been in those stands, watching your son win the championship. But in the end, she'd forced herself to hug the older woman.

"I was with him," she told Effie. "He wasn't scared."

Effie let out a little sob. A tall man with glasses — Matthew's father Wilfred, presumably — rubbed at his face, and the gesture was so Matthew-like that Isla's chest tightened. "Has anyone come by? Have there been any updates?"

Isla shook her head. "They took him into surgery a while ago. I haven't—" Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. "Nobody's come by since then."

Effie clutched at her necklace. "What do we do?"

Wilfred squeezed her shoulder. "We wait."

Fourteen hours passed.

Fifteen.

Finally, at the sixteen-hour mark, a nurse entered the room.

"Family of Matthew Carr?" he asked.

"That's us." Effie clutched her husband's hand. "Is he alright?"

The nurse consulted his chart with agonizing slowness. Isla resisted the urge to snatch it out of his hands. Finally — mercifully — the nurse rattled off Matthew's injuries.

Severe burns to the hands.

Fractured wrist.

And a nasty concussion.

"Mr. Carr needed a skin graft," the nurse continued. "We'll have to put a cast on the broken wrist. And the patient needs seventy-two hours of bed rest in a dark room with no screens." He frowned at the chart. "Er. For real this time."

Isla was breathless. "There's no brain damage?"

"None," he said.

"No pulmonary fibrosis?"

"No."

Isla sank into her chair. Relief seeped into every pore of her body, ran through every tissue and muscle. He was okay. She repeated those words to herself, like a child telling herself a bedtime story. He's okay. He's okay.

The nurse cleared his throat. "He's awake, if you'd like to see him."

Isla's head snapped up. Effie was eyeing a potted plant as if she'd like to use it as a human battering ram. Even Benedict looked ready sprint for Matthew's room.

"However," the nurse continued, "Mr. Carr has asked to see one person in particular." He consulted his clipboard. "Is there an Isla Morris present?"

Six people turned to face her. Isla raised a hand.

"That's me."

The nurse turned. "Follow me, please."

Isla hurried through the corridor. If she were a better person, Isla thought, she would have allowed Matthew's family to see him first; but truthfully, she wasn't that good of a person, and if this corridor went on for much longer, she might just faint with exhaustion.

Mercifully, the nurse paused outside a door.

"In here," he said.

Isla didn't need any more encouragement.

She pushed open the door.