Chapter 8
REID
Noah’s phone woke the following morning.
The screen flared to life in his hand, startlingly bright in the muted hospital room. He stared at it over the rim of the battered travel mug Aaron Pike had recovered from the wreck. I had scrubbed it twice, but the metal still bore deep scratches along one side and a shallow dent near the base.
Some things could be cleaned without being restored.
“Six percent,” I said, checking the battery icon.
Noah took a cautious sip of coffee. “Plenty of time for it to destroy my peace.”
“Ambitious of you to assume you still have peace.”
His gaze slid toward me. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood.”
“You walked to the bathroom with Priya.”
“And three witnesses.”
“You walked.”
“I also managed to piss privately.”
“So I heard.”
His expression went flat. “Was there a bulletin?”
“Only to this floor. The southern wing remains uninformed.”
He fought the smile.
The smile won.
It changed his whole face when it came without effort. For a few seconds, the bruising, the healing incision near his temple, the fatigue pulling at his mouth—all of it receded.
His speech was strongest in the morning now. Rest returned some of the precision the injury stole by afternoon. When he tired, consonants blurred and words disappeared before he could reach them. After therapy, even simple sentences could become exhausting negotiations.
But now he sounded more like himself.
Not the Noah I remembered. Not entirely.
Still, every clear sentence felt like a small act of defiance.
He unlocked the phone.
The device hesitated, then began coughing up nearly three weeks of neglect. Notifications layered over one another faster than he could dismiss them—missed calls, text messages, email alerts, app updates, weather warnings, voicemails, customer inquiries.
The number beside the message icon kept climbing.
Noah watched it settle.
“Three hundred and twelve.”
“Half are probably advertisements.”
“People tried to reach me.”
