Pearl woke to the sound of rain.
At least, she thought it was rain.
For a few seconds, that was all there was—the steady patter, soft and persistent, like fingers tapping against glass. Her mind clung to it, grateful for something simple to hold onto. Rain meant outside. Rain meant time moving forward. Rain meant the world hadn't paused just because she had.
When she opened her eyes, the ceiling greeted her again—white, unfamiliar, faintly cracked near the corner.
Hospital.
The realization didn't hurt the way it had before. It landed gently, like a word she had already learned once and was now relearning with less effort.
The rain sound continued.
She turned her head slowly and found Jackson sitting by the window, his back half-turned toward her. He was holding a paper cup of coffee with both hands, staring out at the gray streaks sliding down the glass. His shoulders were slumped, his posture loose in a way that suggested exhaustion rather than tension.
For a moment, she just watched him.
She noticed things she hadn't yesterday. The faint dark circles under his eyes. The way his hair refused to lie flat no matter how many times he ran a hand through it. The stillness in him—like someone who had spent too long bracing for impact and hadn't yet realized the danger had passed.
"Jackson," she said quietly.
He turned instantly, coffee forgotten, eyes snapping to her face.
"You're awake," he said, relief softening his features.
"Again," she replied. "I keep doing that."
He smiled. "It's becoming a habit."
"How long was I out this time?"
"Couple hours," he said, pulling his chair closer. "You slept better."
"I dreamed," she said.
He paused. "Do you remember it?"
She frowned slightly. "Not really. Just… feelings. Like I was underwater, but not drowning. Floating."
"That sounds… nice," he said carefully.
She considered it. "It was. But I kept thinking if I stopped paying attention, I'd sink."
Jackson didn't respond right away. He reached out, resting his hand lightly on the edge of the bed—not touching her yet, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
"You don't have to stay afloat alone," he said finally.
She glanced at his hand, then at his face. "You keep saying things like that."
"And you keep not telling me to stop."
She smiled faintly. "Don't stop."
The nurse came in soon after, checking Pearl's vitals and helping her sip some water. The simple act of swallowing seemed to exhaust her, but she insisted on doing it herself.
"I hate feeling useless," she muttered.
"You're not," Jackson said immediately.
She gave him a look. "I can't even sit up on my own."
"And yesterday you couldn't open your eyes," he said gently. "Progress isn't loud."
The nurse nodded approvingly. "He's right. Small steps matter."
After the nurse left, Pearl leaned her head back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded. "You're very good at this," she said.
"At what?"
"Being… steady."
He snorted softly. "You should've seen me two days ago."
"I didn't," she said. "But I believe you."
There was a pause, then she asked quietly, "Can you tell me what happened?"
Jackson stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"The doctors told me some things," she continued, watching his face. "But it's all… blurry. Like reading a summary instead of the story."
He took a breath. "We don't have to rush."
"I know," she said. "But I want to know. From you."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. But if you get tired, you tell me. We stop."
"Deal."
He leaned back in his chair, choosing his words carefully. "There was an accident. You were hurt. It was serious. You lost consciousness before the ambulance arrived."
Her brows knit together. "I don't remember pain."
"That's not unusual," he said. "Your brain protected you."
She absorbed that in silence. "And I didn't wake up for a while."
"No," he admitted. "You didn't."
"How long?"
He hesitated, then decided honesty mattered more than comfort. "Five days."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Five."
"Yeah."
"That's… a lot of days."
"It felt longer," he said quietly.
She studied his face again, something dawning in her expression. "You were here the whole time."
"Yes."
"All of it."
"Yes."
She swallowed. "Why?"
The question wasn't accusatory. It was genuinely curious, like she couldn't quite understand why someone would choose constancy over convenience.
Jackson didn't deflect it.
"Because you matter," he said simply. "To me. To a lot of people. And because leaving never felt like an option."
Pearl looked away, blinking rapidly. "I didn't ask you to do that."
"I know."
"You shouldn't have had to—"
"I wanted to," he interrupted gently. "That's different."
She closed her eyes, breathing carefully, as if steadying herself against the weight of that truth.
After a moment, she said, "Did I say anything?"
"When?"
"While I was asleep."
He smiled faintly. "Sometimes."
"Like what?"
"Nothing clear. Just murmurs. Once, I thought you said my name."
Her lips curved slightly. "I probably did."
He raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
"You were talking a lot," she said. "Even when I couldn't answer."
His breath caught. "You remember that?"
"Not in words," she said. "But in… presence. Like knowing someone was there without seeing them."
"That was me," he said softly.
"I know."
The rain outside intensified briefly, drumming harder against the window before easing again. Pearl watched it for a while, then spoke without looking at him.
"I'm scared."
Jackson leaned forward. "Of what?"
"Of being… different," she said. "Of not recognizing myself when I leave this place."
"That's a valid fear," he said. "But different doesn't mean broken."
"What if I can't do the things I used to?"
"Then we adapt," he said. "We find new ways. Or we take the long road back."
"And if I forget people?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He reached for her hand then, careful, deliberate. His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and solid.
"Then I'll remind you," he said. "As many times as it takes."
She squeezed his hand weakly. "You're very confident about that."
"I've had practice," he said. "You forget things all the time."
She huffed a quiet laugh. "Rude."
"Accurate."
Later that afternoon, Jonathan came by again, bringing a change of clothes for Jackson and a small bouquet of flowers he set on the windowsill.
"I didn't know what kind you liked," he said to Pearl.
She squinted at them. "Those are daisies."
"You do like daisies," Jackson said.
She blinked. "I do?"
Jonathan grinned. "See? Already forgot."
She rolled her eyes weakly. "I remember now. I like things that look like they're trying too hard to be cheerful."
"That explains a lot," Jonathan said.
The visit was short—Pearl tired quickly—but it was lighter than the one before. There was laughter. Teasing. Normality creeping back in around the edges.
When Jonathan left, Pearl watched the door close thoughtfully.
"I missed him too," she said.
"He missed you," Jackson replied.
"I missed… a lot, didn't I?"
"Yes," he said. "But you're not late. You're just… arriving differently."
She nodded slowly. "I like that."
That evening, the doctor returned with cautious optimism. Pearl was responding well. If things continued this way, they could begin talking about stepping down her level of care in a few days.
"A few days," Pearl repeated after he left. "That sounds… close."
"It is," Jackson said.
She turned to him. "What happens after?"
He shrugged lightly. "Rehab. Physical therapy. A lot of boring exercises."
"And you?"
"I'll be there," he said. "Annoying you. Encouraging you. Probably embarrassing you in front of medical professionals."
She smiled, tired but genuine. "Good."
Night settled in again, gentler than the one before. Pearl slept more deeply, her breathing even, her face relaxed.
Jackson stayed, as always.
But something had changed.
He wasn't watching the door anymore, waiting for disaster to walk back in.
He was watching her hands, her face, the subtle signs of life returning—not just survival, but presence.
Waiting had taught him patience.
Staying was teaching him faith.