A steady beeping.
White light spilled through sterile windows.
That unmistakable hospital air—sharp, too clean. Hand sanitizer and something metallic underneath it.
Hale opened his eyes slowly.
His head felt like it had been cracked open and stitched back together with lightning.
His mouth tasted like cotton and regret.
He tried to move.
Something warm was wrapped around his hand.
Ivy.
Her eyes were closed, her head resting on the edge of his bed. Her breath moved softly against his arm.
One of her hands was clutching his, like if she let go, she might lose something she didn't even understand.
"Hey," he croaked, voice rough and dry.
Her eyes snapped open. Wide. Alive.
She looked terrified—and relieved.
"You're awake!"
She leaned in, her voice shaky, almost breaking.
"Oh my god—you scared the hell out of me, Hale..."
She sat up quickly, tried fixing her hair, but it was a mess. She looked like she hadn't slept at all.
"You collapsed," she said, the words rushing out.
"Your nose was bleeding. A lot. I didn't know what was happening. You were just... gone."
Hale didn't respond right away.
Because it was still with him—the sketch, the mirror, the cold spike of pain. It lingered behind his eyes like a bruise that didn't know when to fade.
"I saw something," he muttered.
"It wasn't just a dream..."
But Ivy didn't react to that. Not how he expected.
She just looked at him. Confused. Maybe worried. Her brow creased slightly.
"You're okay now. That's what matters."
She kissed the back of his hand. Gently. Just once.
Then, like a shadow appearing in the doorway—
Gyroson's voice sliced through the room:
"I leave you two alone for a few days and this happens?"
He walked in, wearing that half-grin he always did. Holding a coffee cup in one hand and what looked suspiciously like someone else's medical file in the other.
"Gotta say, Hale—fainting into Ivy's arms is a bold proposal strategy."
He sauntered in, eyes dancing.
"You've really raised the bar on dramatic attention grabs. Nosebleeds, collapses, emotional sketch breakdowns—what's next? Interpretive dance in traffic?"
Ivy let out a weak laugh, rubbing her eyes.
"I'm gonna grab food," she said. "I haven't eaten since yesterday."
Gyroson nodded solemnly, as if this were a matter of national importance.
"Bring back something edible. And if you bring another microwave lasagna, I will have you legally exiled."
She rolled her eyes and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
And just like that—Gyroson's expression shifted. The grin dropped. No more performance.
He stepped forward and dropped the folder onto Hale's lap.
A solid thud.
"You earned this."
Hale blinked.
Bold Sharpie letters stared up at him from the folder's cover:
POST-RECOVERY THERAPY – BONING WITH A VIEW
He opened it slowly.
Inside, there was only one thing: a single sketch.
New. Raw.
Drawn by Gyroson's hand.
Beneath it, faint pencil words:
"Some things won't draw themselves. But they will remember."
Gyroson sat next to him.
No sarcasm. No smile.
"You stuck your face too close to the truth, didn't you?"
Hale didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
"You caught a glimpse," Gyroson said, softer now.
"One frame too early."
He leaned back in the chair and exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath you take after surviving a story that should've ended five chapters ago.