"Don't apologize," I say firmly. "You're allowed to cry. You're allowed to feel whatever you're feeling."
"I've been crying for three weeks," she admits, attempting a watery smile. "I think I'm out of tears."
"Apparently not," I say, brushing a strand of hair back from her damp face.
She lets out a laugh—real but shaky. Then her expression shifts. Something dark moves behind her eyes.
"What happened last night?" I ask quietly. "Zay said you went to the Vipers."
Her body tenses against mine. "I went to get Talia."
"And?"
"She's staying with them. By choice." She won't meet my eyes now, staring instead at a spot on my hospital gown. "I tried to talk her down but she's—she's made up her mind."
"Why would she choose them over us?" I press.
"Does it matter?" She pulls away slightly, and I let her even though every instinct screams to keep holding her. "She's gone. That's all."
It's not all. I can see it in the way she won't look at me, in the tension in her shoulders, in the way her hands are trembling against the blanket. Something else happened tonight. Something she's not telling me.
But Zay's words echo in my head.Go easy on her. Whatever questions you have can wait.
So I let it go. For now.
"Come here," I say, patting the space beside me on the hospital bed.
She hesitates. "Your chest—the surgery—I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," I lie. Everything hurts. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. But I need her close more than I need to avoid pain.
She climbs onto the bed carefully, mindful of the tubes and wires connecting me to various machines. She fits herself against my side, head resting on my shoulder, one arm draped carefully across my chest.
Perfect. She fits perfectly, like she was made to be right here.
"I missed you," she whispers against my neck. "Every day. Every hour. I'd pray you'd wake up and—" Her voice breaks. "I was so scared you wouldn't."
"I'm stubborn," I say, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Takes more than a bullet to put me down."
She laughs—a real laugh this time, watery but genuine. Then her hand moves down, sliding over the blanket to rest on my thigh. The dead one. The one I can't feel.
"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.
"No," I admit. "That's the problem. I don't feel anything."
Her fingers trace gentle patterns on my leg through the blanket, and I watch without feeling it. Disconnected. Like watching someone touch a stranger's body.
"The doctor said it might get better," she says carefully. "With therapy."
"Might. Also might not."
"Then we'll deal with it," she says with sudden fierceness, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. "Whatever happens. We'll deal with it together."
"I might never walk again," I say bluntly, needing her to understand the reality.
"Then I'll learn to push a wheelchair really fast." She attempts a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm scrappy. I'll figure it out."
Something in my chest loosens at her words. Not the pain—that's still there, will probably always be there—but the fear. The certainty that she'd leave the moment she realized I was broken.