The room smelled like antiseptic and cheap coffee. The kind of smell that clung to your skin and made everything feel too clean, too still. Somewhere above, the air vent hummed softly, pushing out air that was way too cold. A machine beeped in steady rhythm — slow, patient, like it was waiting for something.

JJ stirred. His body ached in places he didn’t even know could hurt. Every breath felt heavy, his throat dry like sandpaper. For a second, he thought he was back on the beach after a wipe out — the salt in his lungs, the world spinning — but then the brightness behind his eyelids hit him, and everything came back in flashes. The race. The curve near the bridge. The way the bike slid out. Then, nothing.

He forced his eyes open. The ceiling lights stabbed at him, and he groaned, squinting against the white blur until things started to take shape. A hospital room. No doubt about it. Bandaged arm. Monitors. IV line. The full package.

And then, her.

She was there, slouched in the chair beside his bed like she’d been sitting there forever. Her hoodie was wrinkled, one shoe half-off, a paper cup balanced on her knee. There were Polaroids taped to the wall — random moments, probably ones she’d had in her bag — and his old blue bandana tied around the bed frame.

JJ blinked, trying to piece together how long he’d been out. Judging by the mess of snack wrappers and the way her hair stuck out at odd angles, it had been a while. He felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name — guilt, mostly, but also that weird warmth that hit whenever he realized someone had actually waited around for him.

She looked tired — really tired — but still had that same stubborn set to her jaw, the one that said she’d refuse to leave even if someone tried to make her. There was a half-eaten granola bar next to her, her phone screen dimmed on the bedside table, and JJ noticed the little doodles on the edge of a notepad she must’ve found somewhere.

With a quiet breath and a wince, JJ turned his head slightly toward her, his voice barely a whisper — rough, uncertain, but finally awake.

“Hey”