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His hair is pushed back, messy in a way that tells me he’s been running his hands through it over and over again, and his shirt is wrinkled. Then he smiles, and it changes everything.

“Glad you’re awake,” he says, his voice quieter now, but there’s something under it, something tight. “I was getting worried.”

Worried. How long have I been out for him to be worried? I try to speak, to ask, to say anything, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. My throat is still too raw, too tight to cooperate. Frustration flickers.

Before I can try again, he reaches for something on the bedside table, picking up a styrofoam cup and a small plastic spoon.

“The doctor said you can have some ice chips when you woke up,” he explains, his tone shifting slightly, more controlled, more focused. “They’re worried about the bruising on your neck, so no heavy swallowing until they check you again.”

He brings the spoon up slowly, giving me time, and I open my mouth without thinking, letting him guide it in. The cold hits instantly. Sharp at first, then soothing as the ice melts, easing some of the burn in my throat, grounding me in a way nothing else has since I woke up. I let out the smallest breath through my nose as it melts. God. That feels better.

He holds the spoon to my lips again and I take the ice chips greedily.

“You don’t need to talk, but I do need answers,” he says, his voice shifting, harder now, more controlled in a way that tells me he’s done being patient. “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

I don’t react. Because I already know where this is going, and I already know I can’t give him what he wants.

“Was Henry involved in you getting hurt?”

The question lands heavy, too direct, too close to the truth, and I feel it settle somewhere deep, pressing in. I don’t blink. Not once. Not twice. I just stare at him, holding his gaze as long as I can, refusing to give him anything, even as my eyes start to burn from it, dryness creeping in until it becomes impossible to ignore. Eventually, I have to look away. I close them instead, shutting him out the only way I can right now, retreating into the darkness behind my lids.

“Jaxon,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice now, something sharper, something that carries weight. “You wouldn’t let me help you before, and now you’re hurt and in the hospital.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make sure I’m listening.

“You’ve been unconscious for more than twenty-four hours. I’m done playing this game with you.”

My eyes snap open at that, cutting toward him despite everything, irritation flaring through the fog of pain and exhaustion. Of course, he thinks this is a game. Someone like him, who probably hasn’t had to fight for anything in his life, who moves through the world like it bends for him, wouldn’t understand what this is. Wouldn’t understand what it costs.

The anger builds fast, hot, and sharp, pushing past the weakness in my body, pushing past the pain. Well, fuck him.

“Conor,” a female voice calls from the doorway, smooth and composed in a way that immediately draws both of our attention. He turns slightly.

“Mom,” he says.

Mom? What the fuck is his mother doing here? I shift my gaze as much as I can without moving my head, trying to get a better look at her as she steps fully into the room, her presence calm but commanding in a way that feels natural, like she belongs anywhere she decides to stand.

“Let the man have some breathing room,” she says as she moves closer, her tone gentle but firm enough that even Conor doesn’t argue.

She comes to the opposite side of the bed, positioning herself where I can see her more clearly, and then she smiles. It’s disarming. She’s striking, the kind of beautiful that doesn’t need effort, but it’s the warmth in her expression that hits harder than anything else, the way her smile seems genuine.

“Hello, Jaxon. I’m Alessia Murphy, Conor’s mom. It’s nice to meet you, although I wish it were under different circumstances.”

Her voice is soft, warm in a way that doesn’t feel forced, and when her hand comes to rest lightly on my forearm, the contrast catches me off guard, her skin cool against mine, steady where everything in me still feels overheated and off balance.

“I wanted to be here to help Conor talk to you,” she continues, her tone gentle but purposeful, like she already understands more than she’s saying out loud. “He can be, shall we say, a little too impatient when trying to get information.”

She glances at him then, a small, fond smile touching her lips, something familiar and practiced in the way she looks at him, before her attention returns to me just as easily. There’s no judgment in her expression. Just a quiet kind of patience that I’m not used to, that feels almost out of place considering everything else that’s happened.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asks, her voice low and steady, gentle in a way that makes it easier to focus on her than the pain running through the rest of my body.

I blink once.

Conor shifts slightly beside me, explaining the code to her under his breath, and she nods like she already knows how to handle this without making it harder on me.

“Do you know if you are still in danger from them?” she asks next, just as carefully, just as softly.

I blink again. Yes. Always yes. The room feels too quiet after that, the weight of it settling in, pressing down in a way that has nothing to do with my injuries. And the way she’s looking at me, it’s too much. Too kind. Too patient.