Willow did not move away from the bed.
She stood close, one hip resting lightly against the frame, her hand still wrapped around Zane's as if letting go might invite the moment to unravel. His eyes were open now. Not fully focused. Not fully present. But open, unmistakably open, the fog of sedation lifting just enough to reveal awareness beneath it.
The ventilator breathed for him.
Each mechanical rise of his chest reminded her that this was fragile, that waking did not mean finished, that survival was still being negotiated breath by breath. The tube at his mouth made speech impossible. His jaw remained slack around it, his throat tight, his body restrained in small, necessary ways to keep him from harming himself in confusion.
But his hand was warm.
And it tightened faintly around hers.
That was all he could do.
It was enough.
Willow leaned closer instinctively, lowering her voice as if volume itself might overwhelm him.
