“Play his favorite music.”
“Give him a reason to come back.”
I couldn’t.
Every time I looked at Malik lying there with tubes running into his arms and machines breathing beside him, something inside me broke.
But that biker—this complete stranger—talked to him every single day.
I first saw him on the third day.
I walked into the room and froze.
A massive bearded man in a worn leather vest was sitting beside my son’s bed, reading out loud like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It took me a second to recognize the book.
Harry Potter.
Malik’s favorite.
“Who the hell are you?” I snapped.
The man closed the book slowly and stood up. He looked like he could pick up a truck if he needed to.
“My name’s Ronan,” he said quietly.
Then he looked straight at me.
“I’m the one who hit your boy.”
The next part happened so fast I barely remember it.
I launched at him.
All the fear and anger that had been building for three days exploded at once. I swung without honte thinking. My fist connected with his jaw before hospital security rushed in and dragged me away.
Ronan didn’t fight back.
Not once.
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