"You're still healing," he says carefully. "Your ribs—"
"I don't care," I interrupt, my voice sharper now. "I'm not asking permission. I'm telling you. I need to get out of this room. I need air. I need to move. So, either you help me, or I do it myself."
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, I think he's going to argue.
But then he exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Alright," he says quietly. "But we go slow. And if you start bleeding again, we're coming back inside."
"Fine."
He reaches for the IV stand, his movements efficient and careful. He disconnects the line from my arm, taping a small bandage over the needle site. Then he steps closer, his hand hovering near my elbow.
"Let me help you," he says.
I want to tell him I don't need help.
But the truth is, I do.
My legs feel weak when I stand, and the room tilts slightly. Silas's hand is there immediately, steadying me, his grip firm but not controlling.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Take your time."
I hate how much I need him right now.
Hate how my body betrays me.
But I also hate the idea of staying in that bed more.
So, I let him guide me.
We move slowly toward the door, his hand on my elbow, his other hand hovering near my waist in case I stumble. He's careful. Attentive. Watching me without making a big deal of it.
The hallway is quiet.
Dim lighting. Clean walls. No windows.
I don't know where we are.
But I don't ask.
Not yet.
We reach a door at the end of the hall, and Silas pushes it open.
Fresh air hits me like a slap.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
I breathe in deeply, and my ribs scream in protest, but I don't care.
It's worth it.
