Andrew's POV (continued)
Soundtrack: "I Found" – Amber Run
Because sometimes the quiet ache says more than words ever could.
I stayed in the break room for a while longer, just staring at the blank screen of my phone. My father's voice still echoed in my ears — sharp, commanding, distant.
There was no trace of concern about the people who'd died. No mention of the explosion's victims. Just strategy, silence, and survival.
He was consistent, at least.
I rubbed my jaw, sinking into one of the leather chairs. Garcia wanted me to control the narrative. My father wanted me to erase it. And somewhere between both of them, I had to keep pretending this wasn't tearing something in me wide open.
Because the truth?
I did care about St. Grace's.
It was the one place my mother had spent most of her career, and the only thing left that still felt remotely connected to her. She used to say the hospital had a soul. That you could feel it in the way the nurses smiled or the way the pediatric ward painted their walls differently each year.
Now it was rubble.
And I was expected to turn that ash into headlines for someone else's gain.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, palms pressed together. I couldn't even remember the last time I spoke to someone about how I actually felt—not just reacted, not just obeyed.
Was I really just a pawn between two men playing different games? One in media, one in both medicine and the media, and both moving me like I didn't have a voice?
A bitter laugh escaped me.
Control the narrative? Maybe. But it sure as hell didn't feel like I was the one in control.
I straightened up and stood slowly, brushing off my jacket.
Garcia would want an update. My father would expect results. And the media?
They'd soon be hungry for blood.
I just had to make sure it wasn't mine.
********
Just as my thoughts began to settle, someone barged into the break room. I turned my head and saw Penelope standing in the doorway. She must have just arrived—I hadn't seen her when I came in.
I don't know why, but every time I saw her, my heart still skipped a beat.
Our eyes locked—and then she ran into my arms.
At first, I was surprised. Penelope was never one to initiate physical contact. But I held her as close as I could. I needed it—more than I was willing to admit.
We stayed like that for minutes, not caring if anyone walked in.
Slowly, she pulled away, and I brushed her hair out of her face.
" You okay " I asked.
" Yeah," she said, but her voice was low—strained, like she'd cried more than she'd slept.
"You sure?" I pressed gently, searching her face.
She nodded, attempting a small smile. "I had a cold. That's why my voice sounds weird."
I didn't believe her. Not entirely. But I didn't push it.
Then, almost shyly, she added, "I wanted to see you." She reached out and looped her pinky around mine like a child trying to make a promise.
That simple touch almost broke me.
"I'm here," I said quietly, locking our fingers. "You don't have to ask."
Her eyes searched mine for a moment, like she didn't know what to say next. "Everything's just… a lot right now. I keep thinking about the hospital. The patients. The families."
I nodded. "Same."
"I was actually supposed to help coordinate updates from their PR team," she said softly. "You know, volunteer with the media group—gather recovery stories, give them a voice. Help people know they were still standing, still fighting."
Her voice wavered.
"I even had a list of patients I was hoping to follow up on. Now it's gone. There's no structure left. No feedback. Just silence and smoke."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I let the quiet hang between us a little longer.
"I feel so useless," she murmured, her gaze dropping. "Like I'm just watching everything crumble and can't do a damn thing."
"You're not useless, Pen," I said, firmer this time. "You're trying. That's more than most people even think to do."
She bit her lip and looked away, blinking fast like she was fighting tears again.
I reached for her hand, the one still hooked around my pinky, and gently folded it into mine.
"Did you get any feedback before it all went down?" I asked, my voice low.
She nodded slowly. "A little. The last report I got was a week before the fire. They were understaffed but still trying to reopen a few wings. Pediatrics was their main focus." Her eyes flicked back to mine. "They'd just finished repainting it. Your mom would've loved that."
That struck something deep in me.
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. She would've."
There was a pause, and in that stillness, we both just… sat. Present. Breathing. Existing in the mess together.
Then Penelope leaned her head against my shoulder. "I hate that it's all turning into a game of headlines and spin."
"I know," I murmured. "Me too."
She sighed. "I'm scared, Drew."
I turned to look at her. "Of what?"
Her voice was barely a whisper. "That we're going to lose more than just a building. That people will forget what mattered in all of this."
I tightened my grip on her hand. "Not while you're still here fighting for it. Not while we both are."
She looked up at me then—really looked—and for the first time in days, something in her eyes softened. Something warm, even through the exhaustion.
"Don't let them change you," she said quietly.
"I won't," I promised.
But deep down… I wasn't so sure.
*****
A soft knock on the door reminded us we'd overstayed the break room.
Penelope pulled away slowly, the moment lingering like an aftertaste.
"We should go," she said.
"Yeah."
But neither of us moved.
Finally, I stood first and offered her a hand. She took it, and we walked out together, silent but synced, like whatever just passed between us didn't need words to stay alive.
As we stepped into the hallway, she hesitated.
"Do you mind if I spend the night at your place?" she asked, her voice almost shy. "I just… I don't want to be alone tonight."
My chest tightened, but not from conflict this time.
"Of course," I said. "You don't even have to ask."
She smiled faintly and nodded. "Thanks."
We took the elevator down, the hum of the city pressing back into our reality. Just before we reached the lobby, she glanced at her phone.
"I need to make a quick call—to Mr Blackwood 's secretary."
" Be before that i need to call someone else, She's been helping me get updates from St. Grace's."
"You think they'll answer?"
"I think they trust her more than they trust anyone else right now," she said. "And I need to know how things are going. If the staff is regrouping… if anyone's picking up the pieces."
I nodded. "Go ahead. I'll be by the car."
She gave my hand a squeeze before slipping outside to find a quieter corner to call.
I watched her disappear into the crowd.
The wasn't much work for us that day, me specifically. I was so sure that old man wanted me out his sight.
But for the first time that day… I didn't feel completely alone.