Willow wakes to throbbing.
Not confusion. Not panic. Just pain.
It pulses low and deep beneath her abdon, a heavy, insistent ache that feels stitched into her core. It does not spike high enough to make her cry out. It stays. It presses. It reminds her with every breath that sothing inside her has been cut, repaired, closed.
Yesterday they removed the tube.
She rembers that part in flashes. The burning in her throat. The cough that tore through her body. The relief of hearing her own breath without machinery forcing it. The first ti she said his na and it ca out broken and breathless.
Now there is only the aftermath.
Her eyes open slowly. The ICU room is dim, quiet except for the steady beeping of monitors and the faint chanical hum near the foot of the bed. The suite is larger than a typical ICU room, upgraded because Zane insisted. There is a sofa along the wall. A private bathroom. Soft lighting instead of harsh fluorescence. It still slls like antiseptic. It is still full of machines. Luxury does not soften recovery.
She inhales carefully.
Her abdon protests imdiately.
Her hands feel heavy.
She looks down.
Both arms are wrapped in thick bandages from wrist to mid-forearm. One hand carries the IV line, secured beneath layers of tape and gauze. Her abdon is covered by a wide dressing. Beneath it she can feel the tight pull of sutures and, to the side, the small drain pocket collecting fluid from the wound. Even thinking about it makes her stomach tighten.
Her knees are bandaged too. Thick, padded wraps limiting movent. She rembers now. Glass. Shattered. Crawling. Her kneecaps had been sliced open before she ever felt the deeper injury.
Her body feels like it belongs to soone else.
She turns her head slowly.
Zane is asleep on the sofa.
He is not truly asleep. More collapsed. His head is tilted back against the cushion, one arm folded across his chest, the other hanging loosely over the edge. He still wears yesterday’s clothes. His jaw is rough with stubble. Even in sleep, his brow is faintly furrowed, as if vigilance has beco a reflex.
Seeing him like that hurts in a different way. There is exhaustion written across his face in lines she has never noticed before, a strain beneath his composure that makes sothing twist inside her chest. She wants to reach for him instinctively. She wants to pull herself into his arms, bury her face in his neck, kiss him until the last twenty-four hours feel unreal and distant, like sothing that happened to soone else.
Her body does not cooperate.
Her hands are stiff and heavy beneath the bandages, her abdon tight and resistant to even the smallest shift. When she tries to turn her torso a fraction toward him, a hot line of pain streaks across her side, deep and spreading, as though the sutures themselves resent movent. The sensation is not sharp enough to make her cry out, but it is forceful enough to stop her. She exhales slowly to steady herself, and even that asured breath makes her wince as the muscles along her incision tighten and protest.
The compression cuffs around her calves inflate again, firm and deliberate. The squeeze is not painful, but it is insistent. chanical. It feels intrusive, artificial, as though her blood is being instructed how to behave rather than flowing on its own. She shifts slightly, trying to relieve the pressure beneath her hips, hoping to find a position that hurts less.
The pain blooms instead. Not explosive, not dramatic, just deep and wide and relentless. It spreads through her lower abdon and into her back, settling there with a heavy insistence that makes her breath catch involuntarily.
Zane wakes instantly.
He is upright before she fully registers the movent, crossing the short distance between sofa and bed in two strides, alert in a way that suggests he was never truly asleep to begin with.
"Hey," he says softly. "Easy."
His hand wraps around hers automatically, steady and warm, his grip firm without applying pressure to the bandages. The contact grounds her more effectively than the dication.
She tries to smile, but the expression cos out crooked and strained.
"It hurts," she whispers.
He nods without surprise, without alarm.
"I know, darling."
His thumb brushes gently across her knuckles, careful of the gauze and tape that restrict her movent.
"Did it wake you?"
She nods again, her throat dry.
"Throbbing. Like it doesn’t stop."
"It won’t," he answers honestly. "Not yet. But it will."
She swallows carefully. Her throat still burns faintly from yesterday’s extubation, raw and irritated. Each swallow feels deliberate, controlled, more like a task than a reflex.
"I want to hug you," she murmurs.
His expression shifts imdiately, softening with sothing that looks almost like relief at the simplicity of that desire.
"You still can."
She attempts to lift her hand half an inch from the mattress. The effort alone makes her grimace as her abdon tightens reflexively, muscles guarding the incision before she can stop them.
He understands without explanation. Leaning forward, he rests his forehead lightly against the back of her bandaged hand instead, adjusting himself to et her where she is.
"Close enough," he says quietly.
Tears gather in her eyes before she can stop them. She hates this part of recovery more than the pain itself. The helplessness. The dependency. The way her body refuses simple desires like turning toward the person she loves.
Her gaze drops toward her abdon. The drain pocket shifts subtly beneath the dressing when she breathes, a faint internal tug she can feel but cannot see. The awareness of it makes her stomach tighten.
"I look awful," she says.
"You look gorgeous. And alive."
Her throat tightens at the simplicity of that answer.
There is a pause before she speaks again, the words slower this ti.
"They’re taking the catheter out today."
He nods.
"Yeah."
Fear flickers openly across her face now.
"That ans I have to get up."
"Yeah."
The idea alone makes her stomach clench. Standing. Walking. Using the bathroom. Her body feels stitched together by threads she does not fully trust, as though gravity itself might test the integrity of every repair.
"I don’t know if I can."
"You can," he says calmly. "It’s going to hurt. But you can. And I will be right here."
The nurse enters quietly for morning checks, moving with practiced efficiency. A blood pressure cuff tightens around Willow’s arm. A thermoter slides beneath her tongue. The dressing is examined with gentle hands, the drain output assessed and noted without drama.
"Pain?" the nurse asks.
Willow hesitates, then answers honestly.
"Seven."
The nurse nods. "We’ll adjust slightly. So pain is expected. We do not want you overly sedated."
Expected.
The dication flows coolly through her vein. It softens the outer rim of the pain, rounding the sharpest edges and dulling the brightness of sensation. The center remains steady and humming, a deep ache that refuses to disappear entirely.
Her sleep has been fractured all night. Every ti she drifts toward unconsciousness, soone enters the room. Vitals are taken. dications administered. Lines adjusted. Even the compression cuffs wake her when they inflate and deflate rhythmically against her calves, squeezing life back into muscles she cannot yet use.
"I’m so tired," she says after the nurse leaves.
Zane pulls the chair closer to the bed, the legs scraping softly against the floor.
"I know."
"You didn’t sleep much either."
"I did."
She gives him a look that makes it clear she does not believe him. The faint shadows beneath his eyes and the stiffness in his shoulders betray him easily.
He shrugs faintly.
"Doesn’t matter. I am with you... for that is all that matters."
Later that morning the nurse returns, clipboard in hand and tone gentle but decisive.
"Let’s try standing."
The words land heavily in Willow’s chest, not dramatic but dense, like sothing unavoidable has just been placed in front of her. Her pulse quickens slightly in response, and she feels the incision tighten instinctively as though her body already anticipates what is coming.
Standing is no longer an abstract fear. It is imdiate. Real. And waiting.
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