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“At least your face survived…”

An avalanche of comments crashes through the room all at once, everyone talking over everyone else, the tension breaking beneath their familiar teasing.

Zayn and I simply look at each other.

And then we smile.

The tears still running down my face feel different now.

They no longer carry the same crushing terror. The relief buried inside them is now fragile and almost painful in its intensity.

I lean down and carefully wrap my arm around him. He shifts to make room for me, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position, then pulls me onto the bed beside him.

“Not all at once,” the doctor suddenly says as she walks into the room. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

Her gaze sweeps across the chaos in front of her.

Me curled against Zayn in bed.

Sierra sitting cross-legged on the other side of him.

Thalia standing beside her.

Liam at the foot of the bed.

The rest of the guys scattered everywhere—some on the couch, some standing, others sitting directly on the floor.

She stares at us for a long moment.

“…whatever,” the doctor says at last.

She walks closer to the bed and glances down at Zayn’s chart.

“Zayn survived an extremely dangerous accident with a fractured left arm, a concussion from the impact to his head, several deep cuts and extensive bruising, and significant trauma to his left leg.” Her expression turns more serious as she continues. “We’ve stabilized him, but the injuries are not minor, so he needs plenty of rest. No physical activity, no strenuous movements, and absolutely no exertion until his body has had time to recover.”

She glances around the room.

“That’s what I wanted to inform you all before you stormed in here.”

A faintly amused smile touches her mouth as she studies each of us, apparently deciding that arguing with a room full of anxious relatives would be a waste of time.

Then she turns to the door.

“I’d like him to remain under observation…”

“Absolutely not,” Zayn says immediately.

“That’s about what I expected,” she replies dryly, leaving the room.

A few amused laughs ripple through the room, but I barely hear them.

I still can’t fully process the fact that he’s here.

That he’s alive.

That I can touch him.

That I can hear his voice.