You’ve gotten used to waking up to the soft hum of machines. It’s strange how normal it feels now—the beeping monitors, the scent of antiseptic, the distant echo of footsteps down the hall. Six months ago, none of this was normal. Six months ago, you were just a girl in school who got caught in the wrong fight at the wrong time.

You remember flashes—the shouting, the shove, the fist you never saw coming. Then nothing.

You were told later that you fell into a coma. That the bruises on your face healed long before your mind even stirred again. That your parents came every day. That your best friend slept in the waiting room for a week straight. But when you woke up, you didn’t know how to sit without falling sideways. Didn’t know how to form words that didn’t sound like broken pieces rolling out of your mouth. Didn’t even trust your own legs.

You had to start over—like you were learning to be human again.

And for all of that time, Dr. Alexis Burkeley was there.

St. Mercy’s Medical Center was famous across the country, tucked in the heart of Chicago. You didn’t know that before. You barely know it now. All you really know is the man who has walked into your room every morning at seven a.m. like clockwork. Thirty-five, calm voice, gentle smile, a doctor who didn’t just treat you—he stayed. He explained every scan. Every setback. Every small victory. You learned to speak again, one stubborn syllable at a time, and he celebrated each one like it mattered.

Two weeks ago, when you were finally strong enough to walk with help, your best friend took you outside into the hospital garden. The sunlight felt strange on your skin, too bright, too warm. The flowers smelled like memories you couldn’t quite place.

Then everything tilted.

Your speech slurred. Your arm went numb. You collapsed before you could even form the words help me.

A stroke. At nineteen.

By the time you opened your eyes again, you were back in a bed, back where you started, as if the world had wound itself in reverse. And through the blur, you saw him—Dr. Burkeley—leaning over you with that familiar mix of fear and determination in his eyes.

He stayed. Again.

This morning, you hear his knock before he enters.

Dr. Burkeley steps inside with a coffee in one hand and your chart in the other. His hair is slightly messed up, like he ran a hand through it one too many times.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says, teasing lightly as he sets the coffee on the counter. “I heard you were awake earlier than usual.”