"My baby girl," she chokes out, pressing her forehead to our clasped hands, her tears warm against my skin like summer rain.

We cry together quietly, letting four weeks of uncertainty wash away in salt and relief.

Ollie fills the silence with updates about the world I missed, while Mom gently probes my memory, each question a pebble dropped in still water, creating ripples I'm not ready to face.

I lie to them both.

The truth sits heavy in my chest like a stone, but I've always been the keeper of secrets, the bearer of burdens. How can I add to their weight when they've already carried so much? But my mind screams the truth I'm denying: I know that voice, know that cologne that mixed with gasoline, that's now ingrained in my memory like a scar.

He left me there to die, drove away like I was nothing more than roadkill. My hatred burns hotter than my injuries.

His silence was an attempted murder.

Mine is just another scar.

Mom runs trembling fingers through her dark hair, her eyes mapping the room before settling back on me.

"Jake's been so worried. He's been sitting in that waiting room every day since you arrived."

His name sends my heart into arrhythmia, memories of our last conversation flooding back like high tide. I'd chosen Nate, again, and yet Jake was the one constant. Ollie reads my face like a book he knows by heart, squeezing my hand.

"He really wants to see you. But he'll wait if you're not ready."

Tears bloom hot and fast. I nod, unable to trust my voice. My throat burns as they leave, Mom's worried smile following me like a ghost.

Left for dead.

The thought circles like a vulture.

One choice, one moment, nearly ended everything.

The curtain parts again a short time later and my heart stumbles over itself. I hear him before I see him—a sound somewhere between agony and relief. I close my eyes, breathe deep, then look up. My gaze travels from casual shorts to white cotton before finding his face. Dark circles shadow his eyes like bruises, and his hair has grown wild with worry.

Our eyes lock, and time stops breathing.

Jake stands at my bed's foot, devastation painted across his features as he clutches Bones in his hands. He places the stuffed toy beside me with the gentleness one might use to handle a butterfly's wings, before looking up, swaying slightly as he fights tears.

"I went to get you Cinnabon's," he says, voice soft as a confession.

I should apologize. Should say I'm sorry for leaving. But the lies stop here—I'm not sorry I followed my heart, even if it nearly stopped beating.

My cracked lips manage a smile.

"Thank you."

If he's hoping for more, he doesn't show it. That single phrase draws him closer, emotion tightening his jaw. He takes my hand, squeezing gently.

"I thought you were gone for good."