The next time Willow opened her eyes, the world felt steadier.
Not gentle, not painless, but anchored. The fog that had wrapped her thoughts had thinned enough for shapes to hold their edges. The steady beep of the monitor matched the rhythm of her heart, a mechanical echo that reminded her she was still here, still tethered to her body.
She lay still, letting her eyes adjust.
The hospital room had resolved into something stark and orderly. Pale walls. A narrow window filtered daylight through thin blinds. A vase of flowers sat on the bedside table, their petals already curling at the edges, forgotten offerings wilting quietly. The air hummed faintly with the sound of conditioning units and distant movement in the hall.
And there he was.
Miles sat in the chair beside her bed, posture rigid, shoulders tight. His phone lay dark in his lap, untouched. He had not shaved. The shadow along his jaw was darker now, rougher. His tie was loosened, his shirt creased in a way that suggested he had slept in it, or not slept at all.
Her chest tightened.
He really had stayed.
She watched him for a long moment, the sight of him anchoring her in a way nothing else could. He must have been here the whole time. Waiting. Worrying. The thought warmed her despite the ache threaded through her skull.
She licked her lips, coaxing her throat to cooperate. "Hey," she croaked.
The word scraped out of her, dry and weak.
Miles's head snapped toward her. For an instant something crossed his face. Relief, sharp and unguarded. Then it vanished, smoothed over by the same careful composure she had seen before.
"You're awake," he said.
The words sounded practiced, almost automatic.
A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "Seems so."
He nodded once but did not move closer. Did not reach for her hand. The space between them felt suddenly deliberate, measured.
The ache in her chest sharpened.
He looked so guarded. So closed in on himself. She hated seeing him like that, hated knowing she was the reason. She wanted to break the tension, to pull him back into something lighter, something familiar.
And then the idea flickered.
Small. Mischievous. A spark of the woman she had been before the crash.
A prank.
Nothing cruel. Nothing lasting. Just a moment of teasing to shake him out of that armor. She would pretend she did not remember him, just briefly. Long enough to scare him, to jolt him into laughter. Then she would tell him she was joking, and the tension would dissolve. They would find their way back to something human.
Her lips curved faintly.
I will let him off the hook in a second, she told herself.
She softened her gaze, let her expression blur into something uncertain. "I'm missing bits and pieces," she murmured. "Before the crash. And the accident itself."
It was not even a full lie. Memory was slippery, fractured. She was just nudging the truth.
She waited for his reaction.
She expected confusion. Maybe a laugh. A hand reaching for hers.
Instead, he froze.
The silence that followed felt intentional, weighted. The monitor's beeping filled the space where his response should have been.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, eyes shifting somewhere inward. "Of course," he said quietly. "The doctor said this might happen."
Her pulse stumbled. "What do you mean?"
He straightened in his chair, every movement controlled. "You have been through a lot," he said gently. "I did not expect you to remember everything right away."
The tone was wrong.
It was not his voice. Not the one he used with her. It was the voice he used with clients, with people he managed carefully.
Unease crept into her chest. "Miles…"
The door opened behind him.
Footsteps entered the room.
Two people stepped inside.
Christy Cordell and Zane Reyes.
Christy moved first, slipping naturally to Miles's side. The faint widening of her eyes suggested she had not expected to walk into this moment, but she recovered quickly. Too quickly. She adjusted her posture, aligning herself beside him as though it were instinct.
Zane followed, slower. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Miles waited until Christy reached him.
Then he took her hand.
It was precise. Deliberate. Thumb resting lightly against hers.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
Willow's gaze dropped to their joined hands before she could stop herself. Her breath caught painfully.
"Miles?" she whispered.
He did not flinch.
"We are not together anymore," he said calmly.
The words landed like ice against her skin.
Her heart stuttered. "What?"
"We broke up a few weeks before the accident," he continued, voice steady. "I came because we were together for a long time. It would not have been right to stay away."
Her mind reeled.
This was still part of the joke. It had to be. He was playing along. He was making it dramatic. Any second now he would smile and tell her to stop messing with him.
"That is not true," she said, though the words trembled. "That cannot be true."
His expression did not change.
"You ended things," he said quietly. "You said it was mutual."
Her mouth opened. Closed. She wanted to tell him it was a prank, that she remembered everything, that this had gone too far.
But something stopped her.
This is Miles, a voice whispered. He would not say this unless…
The door opened again.
The doctor entered, clipboard in hand, cheerful and oblivious. "Ah, you are awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"
Willow barely registered him. Her gaze remained locked on Miles. "He says we broke up," she said, her voice cracking. "That is not—"
The doctor smiled kindly. "Memory confusion is very common with concussions," he said. "Sometimes patients forget events, sometimes they misplace them. It usually improves."
Her stomach twisted.
Her own lie had trapped her.
Miles's expression softened, but there was no warmth in it. Only pity. "It is true," he said. "You wished me well."
Christy squeezed his hand gently.
"And now?" Willow asked.
He hesitated.
In that pause, she saw the decision being made. Not the truth. The version that served him.
"I am with someone else," he said. "Christy."
The name struck her like a blow.
Tears blurred her vision. The doctor continued writing, unaware.
Miles added, almost casually, "You even joked about it. You said it made sense."
He glanced toward Zane. "Right?"
Zane's jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, his eyes met Willow's. Something flickered there. Then he looked away and nodded once.
"Yeah," he said. "You are with me now."
The room dimmed.
Sound dulled. Light flattened.
Christy's fingers twitched in Miles's grasp, but she did not speak. Zane stared at the floor, arms crossed tighter, as if holding something in.
Willow clutched the bedsheet with her uninjured hand. Her voice came out thin, barely audible. "That is not true."
But she did not confess.
Not with all of them watching. Not with the doctor there. Not when her own words had already cast doubt over her mind.
What if they think I am unstable? What if he already does?
Miles leaned closer. "You need rest," he said gently.
The doctor nodded. "Your brain needs time to heal."
Miles released Christy's hand and adjusted his tie, the movement painfully familiar.
She turned her face toward the wall as they left. Christy's steps were light and hesitant. Zane's were slow, heavy with something unspoken.
The door closed.
The room fell quiet again.
The prank was over.
The nightmare had just begun.