My head pounds with a relentless ferocity, as if a thousand drummers were beating in unison. Strike that. It's not just my head—every inch of my body is screaming in agony. I strain to open my eyes, but it feels as though something heavy and unyielding is pinning them shut. I want to call out—Noah’s name, anyone’s name—but my voice is trapped deep within me, silenced by some unseen force. I feel movement, though it’s disorienting. Someone is lifting me, jostling me, and each motion sends fresh waves of pain coursing through my frame. I wish they would slow down, or better yet, just stop. “We need a doctor!” a distant voice calls out, frantic and urgent. What has happened? Confusion sweeps over me. I grapple with shadows of awareness, but darkness creeps back in, welcoming me like an old friend as I surrender once more to its depths. When I finally awaken again, I am surprisingly free of pain, though I still can’t pry my eyes open. It’s as if my body has been encased in concrete, immobilizing my limbs, trapping me within my own skin. I can hear voices murmuring, but they’re muffled and far away, like faint echoes lost in the vastness of a cavern. Nothing makes sense, and I’m desperate for the reassurance of Noah, his voice slicing through the haze of bewilderment. How long has it been? He must be worried sick. As consciousness slips away, I clutch onto the fading thought of Noah, knowing he would be saddened by my absence. When I finally manage to rouse from my stupor, the room is flooded with blinding light, mercilessly piercing through my eyelids and forcing me to wince away from its glare. “You’re awake,” an unfamiliar voice sings, smooth and melodious, pulling me back to reality. With great effort, I try to blink my eyes open, but the brightness overwhelms me. “I’m so sorry about this,” the voice continues, soft and soothing. I hear shuffling sounds nearby. “You can open your eyes now; the light won’t be a problem.” True to her words, when I finally dare to open my eyes, the curtains have been drawn, and the lights dimmed to a gentle glow. My gaze sweeps across the room, landing on a woman in her late thirties, clad in a nurse’s uniform. A quick glance around reveals I’m in a hospital—an oasis of small comforts nestled within the chaos of my recent memories. “Thank you,” I croak, my voice barely above a whisper, hoarse and dry like sandpaper. “Here, sip this while I call your doctor. I’m sure your family will be so relieved to know you’re okay.” She hands me a glass of cool water, and I lift it eagerly to my lips, relishing the soothing sensation as it washes over my parched throat. As I drink, my eyes flit around the room, taking in an array of cheerful flowers, colorful balloons, and plush teddy bears brightening the sterile space. Cards litter the table beside me—each one a token of hope. I reach out to grab one, heart eager for connection, but the door swings open abruptly, and in walks Rowan. “You look like hell,” I tell him, a wry smile curving my lips as I take in his disheveled appearance. His hair is a wild tangle, clothes wrinkled as if he’s been fighting a war, and fatigue etches deep lines across his face. This is not the meticulous Rowan I know; this man is raw, haunted, as though he’s wrestled with demons and emerged wearied but alive. “How are you feeling?” he asks, settling into the chair beside my bed. “Like I’ve been hit by a train…what are you doing here?” To my surprise, he reaches out, taking my hand within his massive grasp. I instinctively try to pull away, but he tightens his grip, desperation swirling in his eyes. “Please don’t,” he murmurs softly. “I need this—I need to remind myself that you’re alive, that I’m not dreaming.” Confusion knots my brow. Am I caught in some alternate reality? Why is Rowan acting as though he cares? “Are you okay, Rowan?” I ask, smoothing my other hand across his forehead, searching for signs of injury. Before he can respond, the door swings open again, and a doctor strides in, glancing quickly at my chart before his gaze finds mine. “Miss Sharp! So glad to see you awake,” he beams, his relief palpable. “Do you know where you are and what happened to you?” I nod. “The hospital… something forceful pushed me back when I unlocked my car. I hit my head on impact.” I’ve been trying to block out the incident, terrified to confront the truth that looms in the shadows. “Yes,” the doctor confirms. “Your car was bombed, and the blast is what knocked you back." He pauses, a gravity settling in the air. "What year is it?” I give him the current year, and he notes it down. Rowan squeezes my hand tighter, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions—guilt, fear, love. It’s almost overwhelming. Shock envelops me as I process his words. My car was bombed? I never imagined I could be a victim of such violence. Waves of headache begin to surge, a harbinger of pain lurking in the periphery. “The fact that you know the year, recognize your own name, and know who Mr. Wood is—that’s a good sign. However, we’ll need to perform additional tests to ensure there’s no amnesia.” “Okay,” I whisper, still reeling. “Now, regarding your injuries—we had to set your dislocated shoulder, and you have three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and a traumatic brain injury. We had to drain fluid from your brain due to swelling and re-stitch your shoulder wound, which had reopened. Our main concern is your head injury. Do you have any questions?” My hand instinctively rises to my head, feeling the bandage—a stark reminder of my reality. “How long have I been here?” “This is your fourth day. We had to induce a coma to help with the swelling. Some complications may arise with your type of head injury, so we’ll be monitoring you closely for a few more days.” I nod, feeling utterly drained, longing to slip back into the comforting oblivion of sleep. The doctor scribbles a note before meeting my eyes again. “I’ll leave you two for now. Your husband can keep you company.” “Husband?” I ask Rowan, an eyebrow arched in surprise as the door clicks shut behind the doctor. He appears sheepish, and I can’t help but let out a small chuckle at his discomfort. “Well, they wouldn’t let me see you otherwise,” he admits, scratching the back of his head. “How's Noah? Please tell me nobody has told him what happened. I don’t want him worrying.” Just saying his name floods my eyes with tears. I can hardly bear the thought of what he’d feel, how close I had been to never seeing him again. What if my last memory for him had been a bittersweet goodbye? “Hey, it’s okay,” Rowan says gently, wiping away my tears with a tenderness that makes my heart ache. “You’re okay. So is Noah. He misses you a lot.” The sincerity in his voice brings a flutter of warmth, a flicker of hope, even as I struggle to comprehend the fragile reality that connects us now. “You’re acting really weird,” I sniffle, half-laughing, and I catch a glimpse of that familiar Rowan—kind and caring, the one I’d cherished during our marriage. But deep down, I know this softness is born out of fear and urgency. Once I’m healed, he’ll likely slip back into indifference, and that thought weighs heavily upon me. As my eyelids grow heavy, I fight against the pull of sleep, but my body demands surrender. “Sleep, Ava,” Rowan whispers, his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “I promise not to leave you.” His gentle kiss lands softly on my forehead, and I find myself lost in a tide of confusion—a new universe where this man can still feel such warmth towards me.