The Night That Wouldn’t End 2

“Ailine, look at me.”

Owen’s voice was low—firm, steady—but it carried the tremor of someone holding his breath without realizing it.

He was carrying her in his arms, trying to get her to respond, because she had gone completely silent the moment he told her to stay still.

Too still.

Too quiet.

Enough to terrify him.

Ailine forced her eyes open a little wider.

Her vision blurred.

Everything felt too bright.

Owen’s face came to her as a shifting shadow, warped by dizziness and pain.

“Ailine… look at me,” he repeated, softer this time, yet deeper, as if he was speaking from somewhere wounded.

She tried to focus, but eventually gave up on chasing his face.

She followed his voice instead—his voice was clearer than anything else.

“Owen… I… can’t see clearly…”

Those words alone punched the air out of his lungs.

His large hand slid behind her head, supporting her neck with a careful tenderness he hadn’t shown anyone in years.

“It’s alright. It’s alright… I’m here.”

He lifted her fully into a bridal carry.

Effortless.

Fluid.

Silent—except for the sound of their uneven breaths colliding in the space between them.

Ailine felt too light in his arms, so light that something inside Owen twisted painfully.

He remembered how often she worried about her weight.

“How could you end up this weak…” he muttered—more to himself than to her, the guilt raw in every syllable.

Ailine winced and shut her eyes again.

Her head rested against his chest—right over his heart, which pounded so loudly she could hear it even through the fog in her mind.

She tried to speak, her voice barely air.

“S—sorry…”

“Don’t apologize.”

His tone dropped sharply, heavy with a feeling he never allowed to surface.

“I told you… you’re not a burden.”

His breathing grew harsher—not because she was heavy, far from it—but because fear kept crashing into his ribs over and over.

The veins along his neck tightened.

His jaw was locked, sharp as carved steel.

His grip around her was steady but desperate, like if he loosened even a fraction, the world would slip out of his hands.

He strode across the living room—long, quick, careful steps. His breaths were ragged not from exhaustion but from panic clinging to him like a shadow.

Ailine’s bedroom was dim, lit only by a small bedside lamp casting a weak amber glow.

The sound of rain outside pressed softly against the windows.

The room felt like a night that refused to end.

The ticking clock on the wall echoed clearly—slow, deliberate, unsettling.

Its rhythm didn’t match the frantic beating inside Owen’s chest.

When he reached the bed, he lowered her onto the mattress gently.

Not rushed.

Not rough.

Too gentle… for a man who claimed to have moved on from her.

Could a doctor really be this professional?

No—this went far beyond professionalism.

Ailine knew.

Owen just didn’t admit it.

As soon as she was settled, Owen sat on the edge of the bed and began examining her.

His palm brushed her forehead.

Hot.

Far too hot.

His jaw tightened until it looked painful.

“High fever,” he murmured, his voice trembling just a little.

His hand moved to her cheek, then slid down to her neck to check her pulse.

Her skin was cold.

Her fingers were cold too.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Pulse one-eighteen…” he muttered, unaware that he was saying it with the tone of someone angry—

Not at her.

At himself.

He repositioned her head, leaning close to check her pupils.

Dilated.

Slow response.

“Ailine… did you eat? Drink anything? Any medication today?”

His voice was low and urgent, yet controlled.

Ailine shook her head weakly, her eyelids fluttering.

“I just… got tired… the photoshoot was long…”

Owen closed his eyes briefly.

Then whispered, almost to himself:

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner…?”

The last word cracked.

Like someone who had been afraid for too long and tried too hard to hide it.

“Don’t scold me…” Ailine whispered.

“…Ah. Sorry.”

Owen looked at her pale face for a long time.

Too long.

As if making sure she was still breathing.

Then he picked up a small towel, dampened it, and placed it gently against her forehead—

Gentle like he was touching fragile glass that could shatter under the slightest pressure.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice nearly shaking.

“Just hold on a little longer.”

---

He took a long breath—a strained one, the kind taken by someone forcing themselves to stay calm.

His medical bag lay on the floor where he had dropped it in a hurry earlier. He opened it with hands steadier than the rest of him… but still trembling in tiny betrayals.

“Ailine… I’m going to give you some medication, alright?”

She only bit her lip, her body curling weakly at every pulse of pain.

Owen took out a vial of injectable stomach medication and a small portable IV set he always carried for emergencies.

His eyes sharpened—focused, clinical—

yet there was a thin, unmistakable tremor beneath that calm.

“I need you to lie on your side a little…”

He touched her shoulder, guiding her carefully.

“Slowly. I’ve got you.”

Ailine tried, but her body moved like cloth—weak, limp, trembling.

Owen immediately supported her back, repositioning pillows behind her so she wouldn’t fall.

“Good… breathe…” he whispered, though his own breathing was uneven.

He cleaned a small patch of skin, then drew the medication into a syringe.

When the needle touched, Ailine flinched weakly.

“It hurts…” she breathed.

Owen froze.

One second.

Two.

“I know… I’m sorry… I’ll make it as gentle as I can.”

His voice was low—almost heavy—as if he hurt with her.

He administered the injection carefully, then warmed the area with a cotton pad.

After that, he connected the tiny portable IV—enough to help rehydrate her and stabilize her stomach.

His movements were skilled, precise…

but tonight, there was something more.

Care.

Tenderness.

Fear.

Once finished, Owen leaned closer again, sitting right at the edge of the bed.

A sheen of cold sweat covered Ailine’s temples.

Owen wiped it with the soft cloth, small, delicate strokes—so gentle it almost didn’t feel real.

“Shh… it’s alright… you’re safe now,” he whispered without thinking.

He brushed aside the strands of hair sticking to her cheek.

His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of her skin softly.

Ailine managed to open her eyes halfway.

“Owen…”

“…Yes?”

His whole body tensed.

“…thank you…”

The words were faint, fragile—yet they struck through him like a blade dipped in warmth and pain.

He swallowed.

Didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

“…Don’t go anywhere…”

What did she mean?

Surely just… not leaving her alone in this condition.

Her eyelids grew heavy, weighed down as if by stones.

Her breaths were shallow, uneven.

Her shoulders trembled every few moments—her body confused between fever heat and cold chills.

“Owen… don’t go far…”

Her voice was fading, like someone sinking into deep water, speaking their last breath before disappearing.

So Owen finally reached for her hand.

Not for romance.

Not for drama.

But because he needed to feel that her hand was still warm.

Still alive.

Still here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.

Ailine exhaled softly as the medicine began to work.

It was true—

with Owen near, everything always felt a little safer.

She didn’t know when it started.

Or how.

Owen checked her pulse again.

More stable.

Not as frantic.

But he didn’t release her hand.

Not even when he finished wiping her sweat for the fifth time.

Not even when exhaustion pulled at his shoulders.

His surgeon’s hand—always cold in the operating room—refused to loosen its grip on Ailine’s fragile fingers.

“I… should’ve found you sooner.”

He didn’t realize he said it aloud.

The sentence broke halfway.

He stared at her pale face like it was something unbearably delicate.

“You shouldn’t have gotten this bad… if only I…”

He stopped.

Words failed him.

They always did when it came to her.

Owen tightened his hold on her hand, waiting for the medication to fully kick in.

Only when her breathing eased did he allow himself to breathe at all.

His head slowly dipped.

Heavy.

Too heavy.

Five minutes.

Just five minutes of rest.

That’s what he intended.

But within seconds, his shoulders dropped.

His head slumped against the side of the bed, right beside her arm.

And their hands—still intertwined—remained locked together.

That night…

Owen didn’t fall asleep from exhaustion.

He fell asleep because he couldn’t bring himself to leave her.

Not even for a heartbeat.