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The steady beep of the heart monitor cut through everything else, flattening even the soft music coming from the portable radio. I’d read in an article a few years ago that music helped to stimulate brain activity for people in comas—not that Evie was in a coma. It was just…at that point, I was willing to try anything. I glanced around the room as the late afternoon light spilled through the fifth-floor window, turning everything golden at the edges. Vases of dying and fresh flowers sat upon the windowsill, a graveyard of fallen petals collecting on the floor below.

A Get Well Soon balloon was steadily deflating from where it was wrapped around her IV stand, while cards crowded the shelf above her bed. The small television attached to the wall was muted, but displayed a news coverage of what happened. Media vans had been outside for days, camping on the outskirts of the hospital to catch the first glimpse of us. According to Agent Carlone, we were international news—the Prime Minister had even done a press conference on Wayne’s death. His face was plastered across the front pages of newspapers all over the country.

I sighed and let my gaze drift to the reflection in the frame Nicola had left on Evie’s bedside table. I barely recognised myself in the glass. Not because I looked different. Because I didn’t feel like the same person anymore. My hair was shorter now, and I shaved properly for the first time in what felt like years. I’d showered earlier with the door open—just in case. In fact, “just in case” had become a habit I couldn’t seem to break, like if I stayed within reach, nothing else could go wrong. Now, my routine was simple.

Sleep.

Sit.

Watch.

Wait.

Every second of every day had narrowed down to Evie’s breathing and the monitor beside her bed. On the fourth day, her pinky finger had twitched. A tiny movement so small, I almost convinced myself I imagined it. And last night, she’d made a sound in her sleep. Barely there, but it was enough to keep me from falling apart completely. I was hopeful she’d wake up soon. But hope didn’t cancel out what the rest of me was dealing with.

I wasn’t okay.

Not even close.

I could guarantee I had the kind of trauma that didn’t announce itself all at once, just settled into your bones and stayed there. I’d stopped sleeping properly. And I couldn't even eat on my own. Being emaciated meant controlled calorie-dense meals and high-calorie nutritional shakes, which tasted about as good as it sounded. And then there was the therapy—probably a lot of it. For both of us, if she came back the way I needed her to. But I kept thinking the same thing anyway. If we survived that…we could survive anything. We had to.

The door opened behind me, and I didn’t turn straight away. Just stayed where I was for a second, listening as the hallway noise slowly filtered in.

“Any progress today?”

I shook my head without looking up. Peter let out a quiet sigh and crossed the room, footsteps soft against the floor. I felt him pause at Evie’s side before he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then he sat down beside her bed. “I’ve got something,” he said. My eyes flicked up slightly, but I didn’t fully turn.

He nodded toward me. “They found your cat.” My breath caught before I could stop it.

“Ollie?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he confirmed quietly. “Bailey Dew took him home the day he found out you were missing. He’s been looking after him.” Relief hit me so suddenly, it almost hurt. For weeks, I’d been trying not to think about Ollie at all, because every time I did, I pictured him alone in the house, waiting at the door, starving slowly, wondering why I never came home.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “Anything else?”

Peter hesitated for a second before answering. “The AFL’s still trying to get in contact with you.”

Of course they were.

The league had called more times than I could count, and a few teammates had come by the hospital too, awkward and pale-faced, like they still couldn’t quite believe I was alive. Apparently, the West Coast Kangaroos had won the premiership and accepted a posthumous award for me during the season.

That was still impossible to wrap my head around.

Posthumous.

Jesus Christ.

But if I was honest with myself, footy was the furthest thing from my mind right now. The part of me that used to live for packed stadiums and roaring crowds felt buried somewhere under everything that had happened. Right now, I just wanted to heal, and…for Evie to wake up. I wanted that more than anything. Maybe one day, I’d run out onto a field again and feel that rush—the adrenaline, the lights, the noise vibrating through my chest. Maybe one day, the game would feel like mine again. But I didn’t want any part of that life if she wasn’t there beside me.

“And what did you tell them?” I asked quietly.

Peter glanced over at me from his chair beside the hospital bed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “The truth,” he said after a moment. “That you’re alive. That you need space. That right now, your focus is on recovering.” He paused briefly. “And on Evie.”

I stared down at my hands, the skin starting to scab around my wrists.

“How’d they take it?”

A humourless breath left him. “Mixed reactions.” He leaned back slightly. “Some of them are just relieved you’re here at all. Others…” He hesitated. “Others are already talking about comeback stories, and the media’s going insane.” I fucking bet. “But they can wait,” he said firmly. “You don’t owe anybody anything right now, Jackson.”