Three days. That's how long Isla had been in the psychiatric unit. Three days of waiting for the initial 72-hour hold to pass. Three days of calling for updates that told me nothing beyond "stable" and "participating in treatment."

Three days of wondering if she'd even want to see me when the time came.

Theo had stayed with me that first night, sleeping on my couch and forcing me to eat, to shower, to function like a human being instead of a hollow shell. By morning, I'd pulled myself together enough to go to work, to go through the motions of meetings and deadlines and client calls. To pretend I wasn't constantly thinking about Isla, worrying about her, missing her with an intensity that bordered on physical pain.

I'd called the hospital each day. The nurses had been polite but firm. No visitors for the first 24 hours. Then only visitors the patient specifically requested. Each time, I'd asked if Isla had put me on her visitor list. Each time, the answer had been no.

Until today.

"Mr. Rhodes?" The nurse's voice had been warmer than usual when I'd made my daily call. "Ms. Monroe has added you to her approved visitors list. You can come by anytime during visiting hours, which end at 8 PM."

I'd barely managed to thank her before hanging up, my heart racing with hope and fear in equal measure. She wanted to see me. After three days of silence, of pushing me away, of insisting she needed to do this alone, she'd changed her mind.

Or had she? Maybe she just wanted to tell me in person to stop calling. To give up. To move on with my life without her.

There was only one way to find out.

I left work early, ignoring the curious glances from colleagues who'd noticed my distraction over the past few days. Drove to the hospital with my stomach in knots, rehearsing what I would say, how I would respond to whatever she had to say to me.

The psychiatric unit was on the fourth floor, a locked ward with security measures that made me think of prisons more than hospitals. I had to surrender my phone, sign forms promising not to bring in contraband, wait while a nurse checked that I was indeed on Isla's visitor list.

"She's in the day room," the nurse told me, leading the way through hallways that were institutional in their blandness. Beige walls, linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting that made everyone look sickly. "Just to prepare you, she's been very withdrawn today. Not talking much."

I nodded, trying not to let the worry show on my face. "Is that normal? Part of the process?"

"Everyone responds to treatment differently," the nurse said, avoiding a direct answer. "Some days are better than others. Today has been quiet for her."

We reached a large room with windows along one wall, institutional furniture arranged in small seating areas, a TV playing quietly in one corner. A few patients sat in groups, talking softly or playing board games. Others were alone, reading or simply staring into space.

And there was Isla, sitting in a chair by the window, watching the rain that had been falling all day. She wore hospital-issue scrubs, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, her face turned away from the room. Something about the line of her shoulders, the stillness of her posture, made my chest ache. She looked small. Alone. Lost in whatever thoughts were swirling behind those brown eyes I couldn't see.

"Fifteen minutes," the nurse reminded me. "If she gets upset or wants you to leave sooner, you'll need to respect that. We have a call button if you need assistance."

I nodded, and she left me to approach Isla on my own. I wheeled over slowly, not wanting to startle her, but she gave no indication that she heard me coming. Just kept staring out at the rain, arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold despite the warmth of the room.

"Isla," I said softly when I was close enough.

She turned her head slightly, acknowledging my presence but not fully facing me. Not speaking. Just waiting, it seemed, to hear what I had to say.

I positioned my chair beside hers, close but not touching, giving her the space I sensed she needed. For a long moment, we both watched the rain in silence. Fat droplets sliding down the glass, merging, disappearing. The gray sky beyond, heavy with clouds that showed no sign of breaking.

"If you want me to leave, I'll go," I said finally. Not what I'd rehearsed in the car, but the only words that felt right in this moment.

She finally turned to look at me then, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Three days had changed her, though I couldn't have said exactly how. Something in her expression, perhaps. A rawness, a vulnerability that hadn't been there before. Or maybe just exhaustion, bone-deep and visible in the shadows beneath her eyes.

"Why haven't you given up on me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

My throat tightened, emotion threatening to choke off my words before I could speak them. But I forced them out anyway, the truth I'd been carrying for what felt like forever.

"Because I love you."

She broke. It was the only way to describe it. Like a dam giving way under too much pressure, her composure crumbling all at once. A sob escaped her, then another, her face crumpling as the tears finally spilled over.

I reached for her hand, not sure if she would accept the contact, but she grabbed onto mine like a lifeline. Held it with both of hers, pressing it against her chest as she cried.

And this time, she didn't run. Didn't pull away. Didn't try to hide her breakdown or apologize for it. Just let me witness it, let me be there as the tears came, hot and fast, her body shaking with the force of emotions too powerful to contain any longer.

I waited, giving her the time she needed, not trying to stop the tears or hurry them along. Just being present, a solid point of contact in the storm washing through her.

Eventually, the sobs slowed, then quieted to occasional hiccups and shuddering breaths. She loosened her grip on my hand but didn't let go completely, her fingers still intertwined with mine.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping at her face with her free hand. "For pushing you away. For shutting down. For everything."

"You don't have to apologize."

"Yes, I do." She looked at me directly now, her gaze steady despite the tears still clinging to her lashes. "I've been talking to the doctors. The therapists. About patterns. About why I run when things get scary. About why I push away the people who matter most."

I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"It's fear," she said simply. "Not just of being hurt, but of hurting others. Of being a burden. Of not being enough. Of failing the people who care about me."

"You're not a burden, Isla."

"I know that. Intellectually, at least." She managed a watery smile. "My emotions haven't quite caught up to my brain yet."

"They will."

"Maybe with time." She squeezed my hand. "The thing is, I realized something these past few days, sitting here alone with my thoughts and my fear and my self-loathing."

"What's that?"

"That I was doing exactly what I was afraid of doing. Hurting you by pushing you away. Being a burden by refusing help. Failing you by not even trying." She took a deep, shaky breath. "And I didn't want to do that anymore. Didn't want to keep running from the one person who's never given up on me."

My heart stuttered in my chest, hope threading through me for the first time in days. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want to try. To let you in. To stop running when things get hard. To believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserve to be loved. By you." She bit her lip, uncertainty flickering across her face. "If you still want that. If I haven't pushed you away too many times already."

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

She nodded, fresh tears welling in her eyes. "You are. Even after everything, you're still here."

"And I'll still be here tomorrow. And the day after that. And every day you want me to be."

"I can't promise I won't mess up again," she warned. "That I won't have bad days, or moments when the fear wins. When I want to run."

"I know. I'm not asking for perfection, Isla. Just for you to try. To stay and fight instead of running. To talk to me instead of shutting down. To let me help when you need it, and tell me when you need space."

"I can do that. I think." She looked down at our joined hands. "But you have to promise me something too."

"What's that?"

"That you'll tell me when it's too much. When I'm too much. When you need a break or some space or just a moment to breathe without worrying about me."

"I can do that."

"And you have to promise that you won't let me drag you down with me. That you'll take care of yourself too. That you won't sacrifice your own mental health for mine."

I squeezed her hand. "I promise. But I need you to understand something, Sunshine."

She looked up at the nickname, a tiny smile touching her lips. "What's that, Hot Wheels?"

"Loving you isn't a burden. Being there for you isn't a sacrifice. It's a choice I make, every day, because my life is better with you in it. Even the hard parts. Even the scary parts. All of it."

Her eyes filled with tears again, but they were different this time. Softer. Warmer. Not the tears of someone breaking, but of someone being put back together, piece by fragile piece.

"I love you so much," she whispered. "I'm still figuring out what that means, what it looks like. But I know I feel more when I'm with you. And I don't want to lose that, even when it scares me."

"You won't lose it. Or me. Not as long as you keep trying."

She nodded, wiping at her eyes. "I'm going to be here for a while. They want to adjust my medication, set up outpatient therapy, make sure I have a support system in place before they discharge me."

"How long?"

"A week, maybe two. Depends on how I respond to treatment." She glanced around the room, a hint of her old humor returning. "Not exactly a five-star resort, but the company's not bad. My roommate thinks she's Joan of Arc, but only on Tuesdays."

I smiled, relieved to see a glimpse of the Isla I knew beneath the exhaustion and tears. "Sounds interesting."

"It's certainly educational." Her expression grew serious again. "Will you visit? When you can?"

"Every day they'll let me."

"Even if I'm having a bad day? Even if I can't talk or interact much?"

"Especially then."

She studied my face, as if looking for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, she nodded, a decision made. "Okay. Good."

A nurse approached, signaling that our time was almost up. Isla sighed.

"I don't want you to go," she admitted softly.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She leaned forward then, surprising me with a gentle kiss. Just a brush of lips, soft and sweet and over too quickly. But it contained a promise of its own, one that made my heart race in my chest.

"I'll be here," she said, a tiny smile playing at her lips.

"So will I."

The nurse cleared her throat politely. "Time's up, Ms. Monroe. You have group therapy in five minutes."

Isla nodded, reluctantly releasing my hand. "I should go. They get annoyed if you're late to group."

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said, already missing the warmth of her touch. "Same time?"

"Same time." She stood, then paused, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Thank you, Callum. For not giving up. For seeing something in me worth fighting for, even when I couldn't see it myself."

"It's not hard to see," I said honestly. "You're the brightest thing in any room, Sunshine. Even when you're not feeling it."

Her smile widened slightly, warming her eyes. "Flatterer."

"Just honest."

The nurse cleared her throat again, more pointedly this time. Isla rolled her eyes but moved to follow her, glancing back at me one more time before she disappeared through a door that required a key card to enter.

I sat there for a moment, processing what had just happened. The breakthrough I'd been hoping for but hadn't dared to expect. The crack in Isla's walls, not just a glimpse inside but an invitation to enter. A promise to stop running, to start trusting, to believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserved the love I so desperately wanted to give her.

It wasn't a solution. Wasn't a happily-ever-after wrapped up with a neat bow. There would still be hard days ahead, setbacks and struggles as she learned to manage her mental health, as we both learned how to navigate a relationship with the added complexities of her trauma and my disability.

But it was a beginning. A real one this time, not built on denial or fear or the pretense that we could keep things casual and uncomplicated. A beginning founded on honesty, on acknowledgment of our respective damage, on the choice to face it together rather than alone.

As I wheeled out of the day room, past the nurses' station and toward the elevators, I felt lighter than I had in days. Weeks, maybe. Like some tight band around my chest had finally loosened, allowing me to breathe fully for the first time since I'd found Isla in that bathroom.

She was alive. She was getting help. She was choosing to stay, to try, to let me in instead of pushing me away.

For now, that was enough. More than enough. It was everything.

The rain had stopped by the time I reached my car, the late afternoon sun breaking through the clouds in long, golden shafts of light. It felt symbolic somehow, this shift in the weather coinciding with the shift in Isla and me. Not an end to all storms, but a reminder that even the darkest clouds eventually pass, revealing the light that was there all along, just waiting for its chance to shine through.

I drove home slowly, savoring the sense of peace that had settled over me. Not happiness, exactly, or even hope, though both were there in measure. Just peace. The quiet certainty that whatever came next, we would face it together.

Theo was waiting at my apartment when I arrived, sprawled on my couch with a beer and a pizza, the basketball game on low volume in the background.

"How'd it go?" he asked as I wheeled in.

"Good. Better than I expected, actually."

"Yeah?"

I nodded, accepting the beer he offered. "She's still got a long way to go. We both do. But she's not pushing me away anymore."

"That's huge."

"It is." I took a sip of beer. "She's going to be there for at least a week, maybe two. Getting stabilized, starting therapy, all that."

"And then?"

"And then we figure it out. Day by day. Together."

Theo studied me for a moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied with what he saw. "Good. That's good, Cal."

"It is," I agreed, surprised to find I really believed it. "It's a start, at least."

"Best kind of beginning there is," he said, handing me a slice of pizza.

I thought about Isla's tears, her broken confession, her promise to try. About the soft press of her lips against mine, the way she'd held my hand like it was keeping her anchored to this world. About the trust it had taken for her to let me see her like that, vulnerable and raw and still healing.

"Yeah," I said softly. "The best kind."

We lapsed into comfortable silence after that, eating pizza and watching the game like it was any ordinary evening. Like my world hadn't just shifted on its axis, realigning around the promise Isla and I had made to each other. To try. To stay. To face whatever came next, not alone but together.

Later, after Theo had gone home and I was getting ready for bed, my phone buzzed with a text. A number I didn't recognize, but the message itself told me exactly who it was from.

Sunshine: The nurses let me use the floor phone to text ONE message tonight. Apparently telling you I didn't want you to go counts as "therapeutic communication" or some bullshit. Anyway, I meant it. And I'll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Hot Wheels.

I smiled, and typed back a quick response before remembering she wouldn't be able to see it until tomorrow, if at all.

Me: Can't wait, Sunshine. Sweet dreams.

I set my phone aside and lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling but seeing instead Isla's face as she'd looked at me today. The tears, yes, but also the determination. The fear, but also the courage to face it. The doubt, but also the fragile, growing belief that maybe she was worth loving after all.

It wasn't a fairy tale ending. Wasn't even really an ending at all, but a new beginning. The start of something real, something honest, something built not on pretense or denial but on the full acknowledgment of our respective damage and the choice to heal it together.

The moment that changed everything wasn't her agreeing to be with me, or admitting she might love me too. It was simpler than that, more fundamental.

It was her decision to stay. To stop running. To face her fears instead of letting them drive her away from the connection we both so desperately wanted, needed, deserved.

And as I drifted toward sleep, one thought followed me into dreams.

She hadn't run. For the first time since I'd known her, when faced with overwhelming emotion, with the terrifying prospect of being truly seen and known, Isla Monroe hadn't run.

She had stayed.

And so would I.