Owen barely registered getting Cayden to the car. His body moved on instinct—securing Cayden’s seatbelt, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders, making sure he was settled before slamming his driver’s door shut. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white, his breath heavy with the effort of keeping his temper in check.

He should’ve come sooner. The thought burned through his skull like fire. He should’ve known something was wrong the second Cayden went quiet. He should’ve pushed, should’ve done something instead of waiting like a fucking fool, trusting that his mother wouldn’t—

Owen inhaled sharply through his nose. Now wasn’t the time. He reached over, brushing Cayden’s bangs back from his forehead. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I need you to wake up for a second.”

Cayden made a soft noise, his head shifting slightly against the seat. His blue eyes barely cracked open, unfocused, glassy with exhaustion.

Owen grabbed his glasses from where he’d tossed them into Cayden's bag. “Here,” he said, sliding them onto Cayden’s face. “Better?”

Cayden just blinked slowly, gaze unfixed. His hand twitched against the blanket, fingers flexing weakly. His lips parted, and in a whisper-thin voice, he mumbled, “Bugs.”

Owen’s stomach clenched.

“There’s no bugs, honey,” he said gently, trying to keep his voice calm even as his pulse roared with frustration—frustration at himself, at Mrs. McMathan, at the whole damn situation. “You’re safe. Just hang on, okay?”

Cayden’s lashes fluttered. His fingers gave another weak twitch before his eyes slipped shut again.

Owen clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

No way in hell could he take Cayden home like this.

His decision was made before he even pulled out of the driveway. He wasn’t a doctor, but he didn’t need to to know Cayden needed help. He had only seen Cayden fall asleep a couple of times, but this was distressing.

The nearest hospital wasn’t far. Every red light, every slow-moving car in front of him made his skin itch. His whole body was humming with a tight, barely caged anger, a gnawing, protective instinct that wouldn’t let up. The only thing keeping him from flooring the gas was the fact that Cayden was right there, small and quiet in the passenger seat, breathing but not coherent.

The second he pulled up to the hospital, Owen was out of the car. He didn’t hesitate. He yanked open the passenger door, unbuckling Cayden with fast, efficient movements. “Cayden, honey,” he said again, his voice strained with the effort of keeping himself steady. “We’re here.”

Cayden barely reacted.

Owen didn’t waste another second. He scooped Cayden up, blanket and all, and strode inside, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The nurse at the intake desk barely had time to look up before Owen was in front of her. “He hasn’t eaten or drank anything in days,” he said, his voice clipped and tight with barely restrained fury. “He’s missed his medication, and he’s out of it.”

The nurse’s eyes flicked down to Cayden, assessing, then back up to Owen. “What medications?”

Owen shifted Cayden slightly so he could reach into the bag he’d brought. He yanked out the bottles, setting them down on the counter with a dull thud. Then he pointed at the silver bracelet on Cayden’s wrist. “I've got all his medicine. His medical bracelet. It lists stuff. And right now, he’s not—he’s not okay.”

His voice almost cracked on the last part. He swallowed hard, shoving down the rising heat in his throat.

The nurse nodded, her expression smoothing into something calm and professional as she typed into the system. "Can I have his ID and insurance card?"

Owen opened Cayden's bag and fished around for his wallet, handing over the necessary information.

The nurse, having reviewed Cayden's ID, raised an eyebrow at Owen. "What's your relationship with the patient?"

"He's my boyfriend," Owen answered automatically, but the second the words left his mouth, he saw it—the flicker of something in her eyes, the quick, assessing glance between him and Cayden.

Then came the purse of her lips, and Owen used the slight pause before she spoke again to add, “He’s not marked.”

Owen felt his teeth grind together. It wasn’t outright dismissive, but it was there, threaded through her tone—doubt, maybe suspicion. She clicked a few more boxes in the intake system, her expression changing back to neutral, but Owen could feel it. The unspoken question hanging between them.

Why are you here? What gives you the right to be the one carrying him in?

He clenched his jaw, forcing his voice to stay steady. “He’s my responsibility.”

The nurse hummed, unimpressed. Owen could feel the judgment radiating off her. Maybe she thought he was exaggerating. Maybe she thought he was just some frantic boyfriend overreacting.

Maybe she thought Cayden wouldn’t be in this state if Owen had been taking care of him properly.

His stomach twisted. He already blamed himself enough—he didn’t need her adding to it.

Within minutes, a wheelchair was brought over. Owen hated letting go, hated shifting Cayden’s weight into someone else’s hands, but he forced himself to.

A different nurse crouched in front of Cayden, speaking softly. “Cayden, can you tell me your full name? What's your birthday?”

Cayden blinked sluggishly, his head tipping slightly toward the voice. “Owen?” he muttered.

The nurse shot Owen a quick glance before trying again. “Cayden, sweetie, do you know where you are?”

Cayden’s brows pinched slightly. “Mmm… ‘S loud. Head hurts.”

Owen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "That's the most he's said since I picked him up."

The nurse patted Cayden’s arm gently and attached a hospital ID bracelet to his wrist. “We’ll get him back to a room now.”