Yvienna wanted to rush forward—to stand, to run, to cross the distance between them in a heartbeat—but her body betrayed her. Her legs remained useless, heavy, unresponsive.
Then she felt it.
The soft, steady motion beneath her as her wheelchair began to move.
Kyle was pushing her.
Her breath hitched. Panic rose sharply in her chest when she remembered—her father was already awake. Fully conscious. The thought alone made her pulse race, her fingers curling tightly against the armrest. What if he didn't recognize her? What if—
The hallway stretched long and quiet, the sterile scent of antiseptic thick in the air. The wheels hummed softly against the polished floor, each turn echoing too loudly in her ears.
Suddenly, a gentle weight pressed against her shoulder. A hand—warm, reassuring—tapping lightly, as if anchoring her back to the present.
"Don't be nervous," Kyle said softly, his voice low and steady. "You're not fully recovered yet."
