Everything hurts. Not in the loud, panicked kind of way — more like the dull, echoing ache that comes after the real damage. The kind of pain that tells you you’re still alive, whether you want to be or not.

Eli’s eyes cracked open.

Blurry light. Clean white. Cool air brushing over too-warm skin. He tried to breathe deep but stopped halfway — ribs too tight, chest too heavy. Something beeped near his ear. A pulse monitor, maybe. Whatever it was, it picked up the sudden jump in his heartbeat.

Then he saw her.

A woman. Early-thirties maybe. Hair pulled back, a little messy like she hadn’t taken a break in hours. The sleeves of her scrubs were rolled up. A stain on the edge of one glove — dried blood, not his.

She wasn’t looking at him yet. She was checking his chart. Calm. Focused. Like this was routine for her.

But there was something about her that didn’t feel routine.

She looked tired. The kind of tired you only earn from caring too much, too often. And still… there was a softness in the way she stood near him. Like she didn’t want to wake him, even though he was already awake.

Is she the one who kept me breathing? How long was I out? And why does she look like she’s done this a hundred times — and still gives a damn every single time?

His mouth felt dry. His throat scraped when he spoke.

“You the one that fixed me up?”

His voice barely made it above a whisper. He didn’t mean for it to sound so broken, so human. But it did. And when she finally looked up, met his eyes — something shifted.

Her expression wasn’t pity. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even curiosity.

It was something warmer. Something… familiar.

And for the first time in days — maybe longer — Eli stopped bracing for the worst.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know why just looking at her made it feel a little easier to breathe.

But he wanted to.