Beautiful Mess.

The night passed slowly.

The hum of the IV drip and the occasional beep of the monitor were the only sounds keeping me company as i lay there, half-awake, half-trying to pretend Lorenzo wasn't still sitting across the room, unmoving.

He never left.

Not even when i told him to.

He didn't talk.

He didn't touch me.

He didn't ask me if i'm okay.

But he's here.

And that, somehow, made everything feel more complicated.

-

I woke up with the taste of bitterness still on my tongue and the ache of the fall stitched deep into my bones.

My arm was sore.

My leg felt heavier than usual.

And my heart, it didn't know what to do with itself.

Lorenzo was already awake, sitting with a paper cup in one hand, his phone untouched beside him.

The light from the window framed his profile, sharp and unreadable.

"Morning," I said, voice cracked from sleep.

He just nodded.

No smile.

No words.

Typical.

I hated that i was starting to find comfort in his silence.

Like it was the only thing in my life that didn't expect me to explain myself.

The coffee in his hand must've gone cold, but he didn't seem to care.

He just sat there, looking like the same untouchable version of himself he always was—distant, calculated, impossible to read.

Lorenzo feels like the kind of person who don't offer warmth easily, and yet here he was.

Still here.

Still not leaving.

"What time is it?" I asked, trying to sound indifferent.

He checked his watch, not his phone. "Past eight."

I shifted in bed, wincing at the pressure in my ribs.

"Did the doctor come in?"

"No. But the nurse said they're moving you to a private room later."

"Okay."

Silence again.

And for some reason, it felt louder than any fight we've ever had.

I turned my head away and stared out the window.

It's raining lightly now, the sky a dull gray—almost the same color as my thoughts.

He didn't ask how i feel.

I didn't ask why he was still here.

There were too many things neither of us had the courage to say, and the space between us was thick with all of them.

After a while, a nurse came in to check my vitals, too cheerful for this godawful hour.

Lorenzo stood, gave her space, and didn't say a word the entire time.

The moment she left, he sat again, same position, same blank face.

I tried to pretend it didn't affect me.

"You don't have to stay," I said quietly, not looking at him.

"I know."

He didn't move.

"I mean it."

"I heard you."

I clenched my jaw. "Then why are you still here?"

This time, he looked straight at me.

Eyes dark, calm, infuriatingly unreadable.

"Because you don't want to be alone."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to."

I hated how my throat tightened.

Hated how his words found the softest, most unguarded part of me and just… settled there.

I looked away again, lips pressed tightly together.

He didn't push.

He never did.

And maybe that was what made it harder—he let me sit with my own storm, let me decide if i'd let him in or drown him in it.

For the rest of the morning, we barely spoke.

But he stayed.

Even when the new room came, even when i was wheeled in and resettled, even when my parents called to say they'd drop by again later.

Even then.

He never left.

—

It was past noon when i finally let myself look at him again, really look.

His coat was slung over the back of the chair now.

His sleeves rolled up.

His jaw had a faint shadow like he hadn't shaved.

I hated how good he still looked, even in discomfort, even in silence.

"What do you want from me, Lorenzo?" I asked out of nowhere.

He didn't flinch. "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't be here if it was nothing."

He leaned back, eyes steady on mine. "I told you. I'm not here for anything."

"So you're just here to—what? Sit? Watch me fall apart in real time?"

"If that's what you're doing, then no. You're still here. You're still fighting. That's not falling apart."

I blinked hard.

He continued, voice quieter now. "You were unconscious when they brought you in. I watched them pull you off that field. I didn't know if you'd wake up. You don't get to tell me how to feel about that."

"Why did you even come?" I whispered.

He looked down for a second, then met my gaze again. "I don't know. Maybe because i knew no one else would show up before your parents did. Maybe because i thought you'd need someone who didn't see you as a disappointment."

That hurt.

Because it was true.

We both knew it.

"You're still an asshole," I muttered.

"Never said i wasn't."

A pause.

Then i heard myself ask, "Do you think i'm weak?"

His expression didn't change.

But his voice—lower, rawer now—cut through the air like it meant to stay.

"No. I think you're tired."

Tired.

God. That word.

Like he'd cracked me open with just four syllables.

I looked down at my lap.

My fingers trembled slightly, but i kept them hidden under the blanket. "I trained for months," I murmured. "I starved, I pushed my body, I gave up everything and i still lost."

"You didn't lose."

"I fell off the goddamn horse, Lorenzo."

"You pushed through when you shouldn't have. That's not losing, that's surviving."

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from crying.

I wasn't going to do this.

Not in front of him.

But then i heard him stand.

And the next thing i knew, he was right beside my bed.

Not too close.

Not touching.

But close enough to feel like a warning.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, quiet.

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it.

"No," I whispered.

He exhaled slowly.

His eyes dropped to my hands, and then, carefully, like testing a live wire he reached for them.

His fingers brushed mine.

I froze.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice low, breath warm.

I didn't.

Instead, I turned my palm over, letting his skin meet mine.

A beat passed.

Then two.

He stepped closer.

Bent down slightly until his face was near mine.

And something in me snapped.

I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

Hard.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn't romantic.

It was anger, frustration, want, and all the things we never said wrapped into one violent collision.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed against mine.

"You shouldn't," I murmured, even though my grip on him didn't loosen.

"I know."

And then he kissed me back.

This time slower.

Rougher.

Like he hated how much he needed it.

He didn't ask.

Didn't speak.

Just climbed onto the bed carefully, mindful of the wires and my bandaged leg, and somehow still managing to press his weight against me in all the right ways.

My hospital gown was useless.

So were the monitors, which started beeping a little faster, but i didn't care.

His hand was in my hair.

My breath caught in my throat.

I didn't recognize this version of myself—the one who let him take and take, because part of me wanted to give.

We didn't talk about the kiss after.

We didn't talk about the things it meant or didn't mean.

When it ended, he helped me fix my hair.

Pulled the blanket back up.

Sat beside me again like nothing happened.

I should've been angry.

But i wasn't.

Because for once, I felt like someone saw me—not the racer, not the disappointment, not the daughter who failed—but me.

And in his cold, quiet way, Lorenzo stayed.

Even when i didn't ask.

Even when i tried to push him away again later that night.

Even when i pretended to fall asleep just so i didn't have to face him.

He stayed.

And i hated how that made me feel safer than i've ever been.