The bed is raised slightly. Even that small mechanical shift pulls across her abdomen, creating a spreading heat beneath the sutures.
"On three," the nurse says.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
They guide her upright.
Pain spreads immediately through her abdomen, deep and tight, as if something inside her has been pulled too far and forced to remember movement before it is ready. The muscles along the incision engage in protest, stiff and unwilling, and a dense pressure blooms beneath the sutures. Her knees flare next, a hot, tearing burn beneath the thick bandages as muscles activate for the first time with intention rather than reflex.
She gasps sharply.
"I've got you," Zane says.
Her hands clutch at his shirt, fingers curling into fabric because it is the only stable thing in reach. The cotton wrinkles beneath her grip, grounding her in something solid while her body recalculates gravity.
