Morning arrived without mercy.

Amara hadn’t slept. Not truly. She’d drifted in and out of shallow rest, mind snagging on fragments — white walls, whispered reassurances, the dull ache of learning how to breathe again after believing she might never want to. By the time dawn painted the city in pale gold, she was already dressed, already braced.

Ethan stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, moving quietly as he made coffee neither of them had touched yet. He didn’t ask how she was. He didn’t offer platitudes. He understood now that survival didn’t need narration.

“You don’t have to stay,” Amara said softly, breaking the silence.

“I know,” Ethan...