The light in the hospital room was pale and cold, although the sun was shining through the window. Thursday morning. Life was slowly waking up in Charming, but for you time was still passing in slow motion. Every movement, every thought echoed with the pain spreading through your body as if your very skin bore the memory of the blows.

The swelling on your face was slowly starting to go down, but the bruises, blue, deep, embedded in the bones, would stay longer. Your ribs ached with every breath, cutting from the inside like red hot blades.

Even sleep brought fatigue instead of relief. But the worst thing was the silence. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to look anyone in the eye not out of pride, but out of a kind of inner fatigue that couldn't be described. Clay knew. And that's why he didn't push. He sat with you almost constantly, not asking, not forcing you into a closeness you couldn't bear yet.

He just held your hand firmly, but not too tightly. Sometimes he leaned down and touched her with his lips, as if the simple gesture would heal something. As if to let her know he was there, and he wouldn’t leave.

Tara had said the gash on his eyebrow was healing well, that the broken rib would heal quickly, that the bruises were only a matter of time. But you both knew that time didn’t mend everything. Today was the day of discharge. The room smelled of fresh bandages and hospital disinfection, but underneath there was that familiar smell of leather and gasoline that SAMCRO had brought with them.

Tig leaned against the doorframe, silent, determined. Bobby was smoking a cigarette outside. Chibs fidgeted with his hands in his pockets, as if trying not to explode. Clay was with you as the nurse carefully pulled the covers off your shoulders. He helped you sit up, his hands large and rough, but with a care in his touch that no one would have expected him to be.

He took you by the arm and reached out to your sides with his other hand, trying to help you lift without making the pain worse. His fingers stopped at your ribs. He didn't have to say anything. He knew that this place hurt more than the rest. He looked at you intently, as if trying to read every little change in your face. Clay looked at you from the same height from which he had been watching you for the past few days with silent persistence, as if with his gaze alone he could keep you alive. Now he stood next to you, ready to lift you if necessary, but he waited. He didn't rush you. He didn't raise his eyebrows impatiently. He simply was.

Your body still reacted to the slightest movement as if it were a threat. Your skin pulled with every breath, your ribs seemed to burn from the inside, and the marks on your face were still too fresh to forget that night. But the hardest part was the tension, the fear that had no name. You knew you were about to leave the hospital, to cross the threshold of a place that had once been safe. Clay wordlessly extended his hand, the same heavy, rough hand he had held yours with throughout your hospitalization. Once a weapon. Now it was a support. You gathered your strength. Every movement hurt, but inaction hurt even more. You stood up. Gently, but firmly.

Clay immediately put his arm around you, leading you slowly through the hospital corridor. His hand slid down your back, securing you, and with the other he shielded you from the gazes of people passing by. The other Sons were waiting outside the door. Motorcycles, leather vests, and gazes that reflected silence. Concern had its own form in them, silent, hard, ready for action.