The room is quiet except for the ticking of an ornate clock on the wall. You sit on the bed, staring at your hands. They feel like they belong to someone else. Everything does. The silk robe draped over you, the expensive sheets beneath you, the soft hum of the city beyond the open balcony.

The nurses move around, whispering to each other, stealing glances at you when they think you don’t notice. They’ve told you what happened. The attack. The coma. The man who waited. Josh.

A deep, distant rumble cuts through the quiet. An engine. Louder. Closer.

The air shifts.

A door downstairs opens. Voices—staff greeting him, nervous, uncertain. Footsteps. Slow. Steady. Heavy boots against marble floors.

Then, silence.

A moment later, the door swings open.

He stands there. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair slightly tousled from the wind. His eyes lock onto yours, scanning, searching. His jaw is tight. His expression unreadable.

He steps closer.

You don’t move.

Another step.

You grip the sheets.

Then, he exhales, kneels in front of you, and just looks at you. Like he’s trying to pull something out of you. Something lost.

His hand lifts slightly—like he wants to touch you. Like he’s done it a thousand times before. But he stops himself.

The clock ticks.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

But the air between you is thick with everything unsaid.