Miranda awoke to the sterile symphony of hospital sounds—rhythmic beeping, hushed conversations, and the unmistakable antiseptic scent that permeated every medical facility. Consciousness returned gradually, bringing with it awareness of her elevated ankle wrapped in bandages and a persistent throbbing in her head. The stiff hospital sheets beneath her confirmed she wasn't in the comfort of her own bed.
A warm pressure enveloped her hand before she could fully open her eyes.
"Miranda," Nolan's deep voice cut through the fog in her mind. "Are you awake?"
She forced her heavy eyelids open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lighting. Nolan sat beside her, his usual impeccable appearance replaced by something disheveled and worn. His hand gripped hers firmly while his other rested protectively on her thigh above the blanket. The concern etched into his features was impossible to miss.
"Hey," she managed, her throat dry and voice scratchy. "You look terrible."
