This chapter's italics are set before all the rest; it is the moment he decides he needs to move on.

Left over right. Round the back. Up. Pull. No, that wasn't it. Right over left, round the back, over once more, pull. Not it. Left over right. Wrap round. Up through the back. Pull. Not right.

Ryan threw the strip of material at the mirror with all his might, despite this it fluttered slowly to the floor, landing at his feet.

And that was when it happened. He finally cracked. His knees buckled below him and he fell to his knees, his head in his hands.

Before he'd tried to make it hurt more, make somewhere else hurt more so he wouldn't think about the other hurt. You know when you're hurt, someone will joke to get rid of it you should just make somewhere more painful? He had tried. He had punched without wrappings. He had pulled parts of his hair out. He'd stayed underwater for so long that his chest felt dead. He'd run so far that his heart seemed to be ripping a hole in his skin, beating so hard. He'd sliced himself open, watching the crimson liquid seep out onto the tiled floor of the bathroom.

But none of it worked. Nothing was ever going to be more painful than it. Nothing.

So he sat. Still. Not moving. Dead.

Then he raised his head, looking at himself in the mirror. He realised how awful he looked.

"You look like shit," Seth spoke bluntly, whilst casually throwing an apple from one hand to another.

"Thanks," Ryan mumbled, he sat down next to Seth and let his head fall back against the top of the chair. Summer hit Seth, for what seemed the thousandth time that day, and then shot him a look.

"How are they?" She asked, concern showing in her voice.

"Sleeping,"

"Did they say anything more?"

"They'll find out soon," Ryan looked at the couple next to him. "You guys should go home,"

"You sure?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," She was silent for a few minutes, biting her lip, before reluctantly giving a slow, unsure nod and picking up her handbag.

"Ok...call us if you need anything," She hugged him, squeezing him tight. Maybe if she couldn't say it in words, maybe this would do, maybe he'd understand. She hoped he would. She hoped he'd realise how bad she felt for him, how much she wanted to fix what was meant to be the most perfect day of his life, how much she wanted to be able to help at all. But she couldn't. Because she was just Summer Cohen. She wasn't a doctor or a nurse or anything remotely useful. No, when it came down to it, all she could do was sell clothes. Sure, she spoke all the crap about fashion and what would be good next season, what would clash with what. Sure, she could draw a few sketches on paper, which someone managed to turn into a dress, which some celebrity would wear. Sometimes it was called artwork, but all that didn't matter, not in a situation like this, for now, when she felt this helpless, all she did was sell clothes.

How insignificant.

"Will do," He murmured into her shoulder.

"See you tomorrow," Seth spoke as stood up, using his most meaningful and serious tone, reserved only for the most important of occasions. Ryan sort of grunted a goodbye, before lying down on the sofa that the other two had just vacated.

He woke with a crick in his neck. He took a while to open his eyes properly, the bright white lights of the hospital so foreign and intruding after the dark of sleep. He looked up at the clock. 5 am. He'd only managed 2 hours of sleep.

He made his way to the room where he'd spent most of the day before, only to find it empty. He ran straight to the main desk, panicked and confused, various thoughts rushing through his head. What if they'd tried to call him whilst he was asleep? Maybe they'd just moved her? But what if the worst happened? No. He couldn't think like that.

"Are you alright, sir?" The nurse stood up out of her chair upon seeing him.

"My wife was in room 132 and now she's not and nobody's told me anything or..."

"I'll just look on the system," She smiled. "I'm sure everything's fine," She begun typing on her keyboard, before stopping. "What's your wife's name, sir?"

"Marissa Cooper, no, Atwood. Marissa Atwood." He tried to control his breathing, but had begun to find it increasingly difficult as the lady tapped away on her mouse. He wished he could see the screen.

"They've been moved up to the next floor, room 81," He turned to run in that direction, but her voice stopped him. "It's good, sir, she's been taken off the critical list," He let himself breathe a short sigh of relief, then continued, slightly slower, but still taking the stairs 2 at a time after being too impatient to wait for the lift.

"Can I help you?" Great. Another receptionist.

"My wife's in room 81," He didn't stop to catch his breath, not willing to believe she was ok until he had seen her with his own eyes.

"Ryan Atwood?"

"Yes,"

"It's down the corridor and to your right," He skidded off again, his shoes clapping against the polished floor. He reached the room, and although it was tempting to burst in, Ryan realised that that would probably alarm and worry her, so instead he stopped to slow his breathing down, before gently pushing the door open. She was sat up, her eyes red and face white. He sat down on the bed, careful not to move or hurt her and slowly wrapped his hand around hers.

"Hey," Before he could even finish the short word, she had wrapped her arms around him and thrust her face into his chest.

They stayed like that, his hand held against the back of her head stroking back the hair, the other rubbing circles on her back, until a nurse came in. "Mr and Mrs Atwood?" He nodded for the both of them, she didn't seem capable. "The blood transfusion has been very successful, but we want to keep your son in for at least another day to monitor him,"

"Are there any lasting problems?" He squeezed her hand slightly as she asked this, letting her know the exact same thing had been playing on his mind.

"As far as we can tell, no, but things could develop over time. He'll have to come in for weekly check-ups for the first few months,"

"Can we see him?"

"I'm afraid you won't be able to go into the room, he's in a very fragile condition at the moment, but you can go look at him,"

"Thank you," The nurse left and he turned to face Marissa. "Do you want to go now or...erm...wait a bit?"

"Now," Her voice was hoarse and quiet, seemingly unsure of its self. He helped her into a wheelchair and pushed her down the many gleaming, white corridors until they reached their destination. He pushed her right up the wall and stood beside her, on hand with a firm grip on hers.

There, through the thick glass, was a baby, its gender undistinguishable if not for the blue cover wrapped around him. Smalls tufts of blonde protruded from his head and tiny hands seemed to be grasping the blanket. They both watched on silently, in awe of the thing that lay in front of them.

"I like Finlay." He blurted out. She looked up at him, confused; it wasn't a name they'd discussed. "It means blonde or fair warrior, I read it in one of those books."

"You read the books?" Confusion was exchanged for surprise.

"Of course I did." He looked back at their son. "I know you really liked Ben, but I just..."

"It's perfect." He felt her squeeze his hand, he wasn't quite sure where she had found the energy to do so. "Finn for short."

He looked at her and noticed the small tears falling down her face and silently dripping onto the floor. He couldn't help but let his eyes glaze over, if only for a moment.

Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow – Swedish Proverb