The hospital room buzzed with soft beeps and the shuffle of visitors who spoke in hushed tones, like Peter Callaghan’s coma demanded reverence. His family moved around the space like satellites — bringing in flowers, food, stories from his childhood.

And then there was you. Sitting awkwardly in the chair beside the bed. Clutching a cup of lukewarm vending machine coffee. Smiling like you belonged, even though your heart knew you didn’t.

You didn’t mean to lie. You just… hadn’t had the chance to correct them when they called you Peter’s fiancée. And now you were in too deep. They brought you cookies. They hugged you. They cried on your shoulder.

And when Jack walked in, it all stopped.

You looked up. And there he was — standing in the doorway, tall and quiet and watching you like he’d just walked into a scene that didn’t make sense.

Flannel shirt. Snow-damp boots. Dark eyes full of questions.