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“For being here,” she whispers. “For not… looking at me like I’m broken.”

I tighten my grip just enough to anchor her. “You’re not broken, Mya. You’re brave. And if you let me, I’ll remind you of that every single day.”

Her chin tips up, eyes shining. “Even on the days I forget?”

“Especially on those.”

She nods, and it’s so small, so quiet, it damn near shatters me. I help her into one of my old t-shirts, thread her arms through like she’s spun glass, and then guide her back to bed where the sheets still hold the warmth from earlier.

She sinks into the pillows with a sigh and lets me tuck her in, fingers curling in the hem of my shirt like it’s a lifeline.

I brush a kiss to her forehead, lingering just a beat too long.

“I’ll be right outside,” I whisper.

“Fletch?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

She says it so quietly, I almost convince myself I imagined it. But then she looks up at me, eyes wide and raw in a way that makes my chest ache, and I know she means it.

Stay.

There’s no world where I say no.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her softly, brushing the backs of my fingers along her cheek. “Just gonna change.”

She nods, her lip caught between her teeth, and I take the few steps to the guest room—where I’ve been sleeping for three straight months—strip out of my jeans and hoodie, and pull on the softest pair of grey sweats I own and a plain white tee.

When I step back into the bedroom, she’s already curled onto her side, lids heavy, hands tucked beneath her cheek. Still damp from her shower, her hair fans out on the pillow like a dark halo, and the sight of her like this—fragile, exhausted, here—is enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

I hesitate near the doorway, because this? This feels big. Bigger than just two people sharing a bed. This is her asking me to stay in her world. To take up space in the parts of her that were once unreachable.

Still, when I sit on the edge of the bed, I’m careful not to jostle her. She shifts slightly, eyes fluttering open as she looks up at me.

“You sure?” I ask, voice low. “I can crash on the couch if you want space.”

Her fingers find mine beneath the blankets, soft and tentative like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she holds too tight. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

And God, how could I leave after that?

I slip beneath the covers beside her, slow and uncertain. We haven’t done this since before… everything. The coma. The NICU. The waiting.

Now we’re here again, with nothing but a heartbeat of space between us. And suddenly, I’m seventeen and scared again, only this time it’s not fear of messing things up. It’s the knowledge that I almost lost her. That I did lose her, in all the ways that matter.

The silence stretches.

I shift onto my side, mirroring her, our faces inches apart on the pillow. “This okay?” I whisper.

She nods, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “Yeah. Just… weird.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping over the back of her hand. “Feels like we time-traveled. Only everything’s different now.”

Mya lets out a quiet laugh, breath warm against my skin. “It’s like trying to fit back into a life that doesn’t fit anymore.”

“We’ll build a new one,” I say before I can second-guess it. “If you want.”