I wake up, and for one blissful second I don’t know where I am.
The sheets are soft. The mattress is too good. The room smells like Nico—clean soap and that faint warm cologne that clings to him even after he showers. My body feels heavy in the best way, like every muscle finally stopped bracing for impact.
I blink and stare up at the ceiling.
Twelve hours.
The number hits me as soon as I check my phone. I slept twelve hours straight. No waking up to check the time. No jolting awake, thinking I heard a monitor beep. No bolting upright with my heart hammering.
I shift and realize I’m alone.
The other side of the bed is cool. The covers are slightly rumpled where he was, but he’s not here. He doesn’t usually sleep that long. Neither do I, but I guess I was finally just ready for sleep.
A decadent smell wafts into the room, and my stomach growls.
Food.
Not the sterile hospital smell that has been living in my nose for days. Not antiseptic, coffee, and fear.
Actual food. Good food.
Something warm and savory drifts up from downstairs, rich enough that my stomach tugs painfully. Like my body just remembered it has needs.
I let out a breath and sit up, rubbing my face with both hands until my skin warms. My hair is everywhere. My mouth tastes like sleep. My eyes feel puffy, but not from crying. From rest.
That feels foreign.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the floor, and I just… sit there for a second. Listening.
The house is quiet in that morning way. No alarms. No rushing. No voices through thin hospital walls.
Just the faint clink of something downstairs. A pan, maybe. A plate.
Nico.
My chest tightens with something soft and stupid.
I stand and detour to the bathroom because I’m not walking down there looking like this. I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, drag my fingers through my hair, and give up halfway through.
My eyes are clearer than they’ve been in days.
And then my brain tries to ruin it.
I walk back into the bedroom toward the dresser, already thinking about what I wore yesterday, what I have that isn’t wrinkled, and what I can borrow because I haven’t been home in days.
That’s when I see it: my purse hanging neatly by the dresser.
I stop so hard I feel it in my calves.
I didn’t put that there.
I know I didn’t. I remember dropping it. I remember the way my fingers barely worked when I came in. I remember collapsing into the shower and then the bed and then nothing.
My pulse kicks up, not from fear.
From realization.
Nico must have picked it up.
