That was a mistake.
Pain blooms along the side of my face, spreading outward in slow, controlled waves. I inhale carefully, waiting for it to settle.
It does.
Mostly.
My right arm feels heavy. There’s something attached to it. A tube. A machine beside the bed emits a quiet, regular sound that I recognise instinctively as reassurance.
I’m alive.
The thought arrives without drama.
Just fact.
Something shifts in the chair beside the bed.
I hadn’t realised anyone was there.
“Phil?”
Alex.
His voice is low, steady, and unmistakable.
I turn my head toward him more carefully this time.
He’s sitting beside the bed, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks tired. His hair is flattened on one side like he’s been running his hand through it repeatedly without noticing.
Relief crosses his face when he sees my eyes open properly.
“There you are,” he says quietly.
My throat is dry when I try to speak.
“Christina.”
The word comes out rougher than I expect.
Alex nods immediately.
“She’s fine.”
The tension that had been sitting somewhere behind my ribs loosens slightly.
“She’s here,” he adds. “She just stepped out with Emma. They’ve been here all night.”
All night.
I try to assemble time into something logical.
“What time is it?”
“Just after eight.”
Morning, then.
I nod slightly, the movement small enough not to hurt.