* Trigger warnings* Medical trauma, arguing, PTSD, family angst.
The world came back in fragments—a rhythmic beeping, the cold press of sheets against my skin, the weight of something wrapped around my hand. It was like surfacing from deep water, my mind sluggish, my body unresponsive. My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open, blinking against the dull lights.
At first, nothing made sense. The sterile white walls, the unfamiliar hum of machines. Then, I saw him. Miras. His face hovered over mine, his dark eyes wide with something raw and unguarded. Relief? Fear? I couldn't tell. My heart lurched, but then—
Something was in my throat.
Panic hit like a freight train. I couldn't breathe. My chest heaved, but the air wouldn't come. My hands jerked up, clawing at the obstruction, at the tubes forcing their way down, choking me. A strangled sound escaped me, equal parts terror and desperation.
Alarms screamed. My body thrashed against the IVs, against the restraints of weakness. The walls blurred, the edges of my vision closing in. I was drowning. Dying.
"Hey—hey, Cherish, look at me!"
A voice cut through the chaos, steady and desperate all at once. Miras. His hands framed my face, anchoring me in place. His thumbs swept against my cheeks, grounding me in something real. "You're okay. You're safe. I know it feels wrong, but you have to stay calm. Please—just breathe as slow as you can."
I whimpered, my body trembling uncontrollably. But his voice. Miras. I clung to it, to him. My fingers curled weakly around his wrist, holding on.
"I've got you," he whispered. Then, to my shock, his hand moved to the tube in my throat. His fingers were steady, his expression fierce with determination. "This is going to hurt, but I need you to trust me."
I had no choice. My whole body shuddered as he began to pull, the sensation unbearable—a raw, tearing burn that sent another wave of panic crashing over me. Miras's grip on me tightened.
"Breathe, Cherish. Just a little longer."
With a final, agonizing tug, the tube was free. I coughed violently, each inhale raw and jagged, but I could breathe. On my own. The realization sent fresh tears down my cheeks.
My body sagged against the pillows, exhaustion crashing over me in waves. Miras leaned closer, pressing his forehead to mine. His breath shuddered, his hands still clutching mine as if afraid to let go.
My body was a map of pain, each mark a reminder of what had been done to me. Dr. Amar had been meticulous in his cruelty. My ribs, still aching from the fractures, protested even the smallest movement. Deep gashes, now healing into rigid lines, stretched over my torso and arms. The burns—some old, some newer—left patches of my skin raw and sensitive to the touch. And then there were the things unseen: the nerve damage that made my left hand tremble, the way my breath hitched from lungs that had been nearly drowned too many times, the weakness in my legs that left me uncertain if I'd ever walk properly again.
But right now, none of that mattered.
Right now, it was just me and Miras.
His touch was so gentle, so reverent, as if he was afraid I might shatter under his fingertips. I turned my head slightly, ignoring the dull ache that radiated through my neck, and met his gaze. His eyes held so much—anger, sorrow, guilt—but beneath it all was something deeper, something softer. Love.
"You don't have to look at me like that," I murmured, my voice hoarse from weeks of disuse.
His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, his thumb ghosted over the back of my hand, a silent reassurance. "How else am I supposed to look at you? After everything?" His voice was low, rough, thick with emotion.
I exhaled shakily. "Like I'm still me."
Miras let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to mine, his warmth seeping into me. "You are. You always will be."
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to ignore the weight of what had been taken from me, what I would never fully get back. But Miras's arms around me, the way he held me like I was something precious, made it easier to forget—even if only for a little while.
"I was so scared I lost you."
I offered a weak smile of reassurance, "I pride myself on my stubbornness."
"I hate that I couldn't stop it," he says, his voice low, rough. "I hate that you're hurting because of him."
I open my eyes, meeting his. "But you got me out."
His brows draw together, his thumb stilling against my cheek.
"You got me out," I repeat, voice steadier this time. "You saved me."
His breath shudders out, and then he's leaning in, his forehead pressing against mine, his lips barely brushing over my forehead. It's such a soft thing, such a careful, reverent touch that my chest tightens, something fragile and aching swelling behind my ribs. It takes all the strength I have—but I lean up to him. It sends a shooting pain through my spine but I ignore it, pressing my lips to his. Miras freezes–hesitant to kiss me back. His breath catches, and for a second, I think he might pull away. His hand is still on my cheek, warm and steady, but the rest of him is tense, frozen. Maybe he thinks I'm too fragile for this—that I'll break apart in his arms. Maybe he's right.
But I don't care.
I press in just a little more, ignoring the slow-burning pain curling up my spine. I just want to feel something that isn't pain, something that isn't fear or helplessness. Miras is the first thing in so long that has felt safe, and I need him close.
His hesitation lasts only a moment longer before he exhales sharply and kisses me back.
It's gentle—of course it is. He kisses me like I'm something precious, something breakable. His lips move against mine slowly, testing, searching, waiting to make sure this is okay. It is. God, it is.
His hand slides from my cheek to cradle the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair as his other arm carefully wraps around me. I sink into him, letting the warmth of his body chase away the lingering cold in my bones.
I feel safe here.
But just as I start to relax, just as my fingers weakly clutch at the fabric of his shirt, the door slams open.
"Cherish!"
The voice—deep, desperate—shocks me so hard I jolt back, my breath hitching as pain flares through my ribs. Miras catches me before I can fall, his hands steadying me, but my heart is already hammering wildly in my chest.
My father stands in the doorway, eyes wide and wild, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. And behind him, Imani—his expression a mixture of relief and shock, though there's an unmistakable flicker of amusement in his eyes as he takes in the scene before him.
Miras still has his hands on me, still close enough that I can feel his warmth. I can only imagine how this looks—my flushed face, the way I'm gripping at him like he's the only thing keeping me upright.
My dad stands still in the doorway, like he's unsure if it's safe to enter.
"Are you ok? Are you in pain—what hurts?"
I didn't know how to answer that.
Uh…" Imani clears his throat. "Are we interrupting something?"
I groan, dropping my face against Miras' shoulder as the heat in my cheeks intensifies.
Miras sighs. "Perfect timing, as always."
Miras' arms tighten around me for a second, a protective reflex, before he carefully helps me ease back against the pillows. My body is already protesting the movement—my ribs aching, my spine throbbing, my limbs weak—but I grit my teeth and force myself to stay upright. I don't want to look as fragile as I feel, not in front of my father.
My dad is still standing in the doorway, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His face is tight with something between fury and grief, like he can barely stand to look at me and yet can't bear to look away.
"Dad," I whisper, my voice rasping from the damage to my throat.
That's all it takes. He's across the room in an instant, sinking down onto the bed beside me. His hands shake as he reaches for mine, but when he finally touches me, it's impossibly gentle, as if afraid I'll break apart beneath his fingers.
"My baby," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "Oh, Cherish…"
The tightness in my chest has nothing to do with my injuries now. I squeeze his hand, hoping he can feel me, feel that I'm still here. Still alive.
"I'm okay," I try to say, but we both know that isn't true.
His throat works, his eyes glistening, but before he can say anything else, Imani steps forward, clearing his throat.
"As much as I hate to ruin the moment," Imani says, his voice softer than usual, "there are some things we need to go over."
I don't like it when he says that.
I shift slightly, adjusting my position so I can look at him properly. Even that small movement makes my body throb. Imani notices—I can see it in the way his expression tightens, in the way his gaze flickers over me like he's taking inventory of every wound, every weakness.
"Go ahead," I murmur. "Tell me."
He hesitates, but my dad doesn't.
"They told me what he did to you," my father says, his grip tightening around my hand. "The Cube… the experiments…" He sucks in a sharp breath, his voice unsteady when he continues. "The damage isn't just—just cuts and bruises, Cherish. Some of it won't heal."
I already knew that. I knew the moment I first tried to move my right hand and felt nothing but weakness in my fingers. The moment I tried to speak after waking up and felt the raw, grating pain in my throat. The moment I tried to breathe without the ventilator and realized my lungs weren't what they used to be.
Still, hearing him say it feels like being punched in the gut.
Imani steps closer, his arms crossed. "Dr. Amar's experiments weren't just about pain. He wanted to push your body past its limits. That means prolonged oxygen deprivation, forced overexertion, muscle deterioration…" He sighs, his jaw tightening. "The nerve damage in your right hand is permanent. You might regain some strength, but the fine motor control? It's not coming back."
I look down at my hand, flexing my fingers experimentally. They move—slow, sluggish, not quite right. My dominant hand, the one I relied on for everything, now barely works at all.
I swallow hard. "What else?"
Imani glances at my father, but my dad is looking down, his jaw clenched so tight it might crack.
Miras shifts beside me, his hand brushing against mine. He doesn't say anything, but the warmth of his touch is enough to ground me.
"The Cube," Imani says carefully, "did damage to your nervous system. Your pain tolerance is going to be all over the place—sometimes you won't feel things you should, and sometimes even the lightest touch is going to hurt. Your muscles… they were pushed past their limits over and over. You'll recover some mobility, but you're going to have chronic weakness. Chronic pain. Some days will be better than others, but…" His voice drops. "It's not going away."
Chronic. Permanent.
I stare down at my lap, my breath shallow. The Cube took everything from me—my strength, my body, my control. Even now, even after escaping, it's still holding onto pieces of me.
I press my lips together, trying to keep the emotions at bay. "And my lungs?"
Imani's lips press into a thin line. "The scarring in your lungs isn't severe, but it's enough that you're going to have trouble breathing under strain. You'll have episodes where it's harder to catch your breath. Running, fighting, exertion of any kind—it's going to be different for you now."
I inhale slowly, testing it, feeling the tightness that never quite goes away.
Permanent.
Miras stiffens beside me as Imani finishes explaining. I can feel the shift in him—his body tense, his breath sharp.
"That's enough."
His voice is firm, cutting through the weight of the conversation like a blade. My father looks up, startled, but Imani just sighs, like he expected this.
"Miras—"
"No." Miras pushes up from where he's been sitting beside me, his movements sharp with barely contained frustration. "She just woke up. You don't get to dump all of this on her like she's a damn case file."
Imani's expression hardens. "She has a right to know."
"Of course she does," Miras snaps. "But not like this. Not all at once, right after she—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "She's barely out of a coma, Imani. She just got her breathing tube out. You think now is the time to hit her with every permanent injury she has to live with?"
I swallow, gripping the sheets in my lap. Miras is right—it is a lot. But at the same time, would there ever be a good time?
"Miras," my dad says carefully. "She needs to know what she's up against."
"I get that," Miras says, voice tight. "But you're not thinking about how this is hitting her right now. You're talking about permanent nerve damage and chronic pain like it's a checklist. Do you even see her?" His voice lowers, sharp with frustration. "She's barely holding it together."
I don't know if he means me or himself.
A heavy silence stretches between them. My dad's jaw is tight, his gaze flickering toward me. Imani is unreadable, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
I exhale shakily. "It's okay," I murmur. My voice is hoarse, my throat raw, but they all hear me. "I need to know."
I know they're trying to be gentle.
I know my dad and Imani wouldn't put me through this if it weren't necessary.
But that doesn't change the fact that every touch, every movement, every test feels like they're peeling away layers of raw, exposed nerve.
Miras is still beside me, his fingers curled around mine, grounding me. His presence is the only thing keeping me from spiraling.
"Alright," Imani says, kneeling beside the bed. His voice is calm, clinical. I can tell he's trying not to sound too detached, but he's still in doctor mode. "We're going to start with your hand."
I already know what he's going to say. I already know how bad it is. But I let him go through the motions anyway.
"Can you squeeze my fingers?" he asks, offering his hand.
I try.
I really do.
My fingers barely move. It's like trying to grab something with a hand that doesn't belong to me. The nerves are too damaged, the muscles too weak. I can feel the effort, the strain, but my grip is pitiful—like a ghost of what it used to be.
Miras' hand tightens around my other one. My father exhales softly.
Imani nods. "Okay. Can you spread your fingers for me?"
I try that too. The movement is sluggish, uneven. My pinky barely responds at all.
My stomach twists.
I force myself to breathe. This is what I expected. I already knew. But knowing and feeling are two different things.
Imani takes my wrist, his fingers pressing lightly against the skin. "Can you feel this?"
I nod. The sensation is dull, like he's touching me through layers of fabric, but it's there.
He presses a little harder, tracing his fingers down my palm.
I jerk back with a sharp inhale.
Pain flares hot and fast, like a sudden electric shock. My vision blurs for half a second, my breathing going shallow.
"Shit—" Miras shifts beside me, his hand coming to my back, his warmth steadying me. "Alright, that's enough."
"We're almost done," Imani says, his voice calmer than I feel.
Miras looks like he wants to argue, but I shake my head at him, even as I press against his warmth. "Just finish," I rasp.
My father looks pained, but he nods. "We'll check your lungs next."
I already know what that means.
I brace myself as he moves closer, pressing a stethoscope against my ribs. "Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart."
I try.
I barely get halfway before my lungs seize up. Pain stabs through my chest, sharp and unforgiving, and I choke on the breath, my body curling forward instinctively.
"Stop." Miras' voice is firm, edged with anger.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get air past the tightness. My father's hand is on my shoulder, steady but not pressing. Imani watches, his jaw tight.
"You're okay," my dad murmurs. "Just breathe through it, baby."
I do. Slowly.
Eventually, the pain dulls enough that I can force myself upright again. I swallow against the raw burn in my throat, blinking back the sting behind my eyes.
Imani sighs. "That's enough for now."
Miras looks like he wants to throw them both out of the room.
I manage a weak smile, still gripping his hand. "See? Survived again."
Miras is still holding my hand, his grip firm but careful, like he's afraid I'll slip away if he lets go. I squeeze back as best as I can, even though my fingers barely move. He notices. His jaw tightens.
Imani rubs a hand down his face, standing up. "We'll need to do more assessments later, but this gives us a baseline."
Miras lets out a sharp, bitter breath. "Great. You've got your data. You happy now?"
"Miras," my dad warns, but Miras isn't having it.
"She's barely breathing, she's in pain, and you're acting like she's a lab experiment—"
Imani's expression flickers, something almost like guilt flashing through his eyes, but it's gone just as quickly. "We need to know what we're dealing with, Miras. If we don't—"
"I don't care," Miras snaps. "You could've waited."
I don't want them fighting. Not over me. Not when my body already feels like a battlefield.
I take a shaky breath, shifting slightly, and Miras immediately looks at me, his frustration crumbling into concern. "Hey, take it easy," he murmurs.
I manage a small, tired smile. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep stressing like this."
Miras scoffs, but there's no real heat behind it. "Maybe. But at least I'll still be able to breathe properly when it happens."
Imani sighs. "Look, I get that this is hard for all of us, but we need to—"
"No," Miras cuts him off. "You don't get it. You weren't in that place with her. You didn't hear her scream. You didn't see what she looked like when the cube nearly tore her apart." His voice is rough, his grip tightening just slightly around mine. "You didn't see it, Imani."
The words land heavy in the air.
For a long moment, no one says anything.
My dad is staring down at his hands, his face unreadable, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. Imani presses his lips together like he wants to argue—but doesn't.
Miras exhales, some of the fight leaving him, and turns back to me. His fingers brush over my knuckles, light and careful.
"You don't have to do any more of this today," he tells me quietly. "Not if you don't want to."
I shake my head. "I do."
His brow furrows. "Cherish—"
"I need to know what my body can and can't do now," I say, my voice raspy but firm. "I need to be ready."
For what, I'm not sure. But I do know this—Dr. Amar took too much from me already. He stole my strength, my control, my breath.
I won't let him take my will, too.
Miras studies me for a long moment, then sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Fine," he mutters. "But we take breaks. If you push yourself too hard, I'm putting you back in that bed and tying you to it if I have to."
Imani smirks slightly. "I knew you had a controlling side."
Miras glares at him. "You are the last person who gets to talk right now."
Despite everything—despite the pain, the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on my chest—I laugh. It's weak, barely more than a breath, but it's real.
Miras turns back to me, and something in his expression softens. "I mean it," he says quietly. "You don't have to prove anything. Not to me."
I nod, squeezing his hand. "I know."
But I need to prove it to myself.
I shift in the bed, pushing myself upright with shaky arms. Every inch feels like it takes more effort than it should, my body sluggish and uncooperative. I can feel Miras behind me, his presence a solid, protective weight, but I don't want to rely on him—not like this. Not when I need to know how much I can do on my own.
Imani watches closely, his hands hovering at the ready in case I fall, but there's a certain clinical detachment in his eyes, the same one he wears when he's in control of the situation. But I can feel Miras' tension, even without looking at him. He's already holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
"Cherish…" Miras' voice is low, warning, but it doesn't reach me. My mind is focused on one thing: standing.
I push my feet to the floor, the cold tiles biting at my bare skin, and lean forward slightly, testing my balance. My legs wobble, my knees threatening to buckle before I even have the chance to straighten up. But I can do this. I have to.
I take a breath, steeling myself, and attempt to rise, pushing against the bed with my palms, but my legs—weak, like they've forgotten how to hold me up—collapse the moment I try to straighten. My body crashes back onto the bed, the movement jarring enough to make my ribs ache, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.
A sharp, strangled sound escapes my throat before I can stop it, the pain and frustration bubbling up into something more vulnerable than I'm willing to show.
Miras is at my side in a second, his hands gently catching my shoulders before I can fall too hard, but he's shaking now, the tension in his hands giving away just how close he is to losing control. "Cherish," he murmurs, his voice tight with a mixture of concern and something else I can't quite place. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I was trying to stand," I say, the words coming out raspy, thick with the effort of speaking at all. I try to push against his grip, but he doesn't let go, and I don't have the strength to fight him. "I need to know what I can do."
"Not like this," he snaps, his voice cracking with frustration. "You can't just throw yourself into this without… without seeing what's actually wrong."
"I'm fine," I lie, but the words are hollow, even to me. I can feel the burn in my legs, the tremble of muscles that aren't used to bearing weight. I can feel the fatigue settling deep into my bones, the heaviness that won't go away.
"You're not fine," he says, his voice shaking now, his hands firm as he gently pulls me back against him, cradling me like he's afraid I'll break in his arms. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."
I want to argue. I want to tell him I can handle it, that I need to fight through this, that I won't just sit here and let everything slip away. But the truth is too clear now: I'm not ready. My body's not ready. And no matter how much I want it to, nothing's going to change that right now.
Imani steps forward, his expression stern but concerned. "We need to assess your strength, Cherish. Pushing yourself too hard is only going to make things worse."
I try to shake my head, but the dizziness hits me, my vision blurring for a second. I grip Miras' arm, holding on tight, trying to steady myself. He doesn't let go, his other hand moving to the back of my neck, rubbing in slow, reassuring circles. He's silent for a long moment, but I can feel the weight of his thoughts, the storm brewing in his chest. The fear he's holding back.
"You're scaring me," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, like he's afraid to admit it out loud. He presses his forehead to mine, the warmth of his breath mingling with mine. "Please don't push yourself like this."
I try to look at him, but my eyes are heavy, the weight of everything pressing down on me. "I have to know," I whisper, the words coming out in a breathless rush. "I can't stay like this forever."
Miras exhales sharply, his fingers tightening in my hair as if he's trying to hold onto something—anything—to keep me from slipping away. "I don't care if you can't stay like this. I just need you to be here. Alive."
My heart stutters, the quiet desperation in his voice pulling at something deep inside me, something I didn't realize was still there.
The door clicks shut behind Imani and my dad, leaving Miras and me in the room, a silence stretching between us like a tightrope. The hum of the fluorescent lights is almost deafening, the air thick with unspoken words and the weight of everything we've just been through.
Miras hasn't let go of my hand, and I don't think I want him to. Not yet. Not after everything. I shift slightly in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, but my body protests with every movement. I'm still raw, still too fragile.
He watches me for a moment, his eyes tracing the lines of my face, the tension still present in his jaw, the worry in the crease between his brows. His thumb runs slowly over my knuckles, like he's trying to steady both of us at once.
"Miras," I say softly, my voice raspy but steady. I don't look away from him, even as he tries to pretend like everything's fine. "When was the last time you ate?"
He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around mine, but he doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks away, avoiding my gaze like I might see something in his eyes that he's not ready to share.
"It's not important," he says finally, his voice a little too sharp. "I'm fine."
I don't believe him. Not for a second.
"Miras, please," I say, my voice softer now, a little more insistent. "You need to eat. You need to sleep. I'm awake now. I'm here."
His expression softens, but there's still a hardness to it, like he's not ready to let go of the weight he's carrying. Like if he stops, even for a moment, everything might fall apart. "I can't stop watching over you," he says quietly, his voice thick with something I can't quite place. "I'm not leaving you, Cherish. Not now."
"You don't have to watch me," I reply, my heart aching as I reach up to gently touch his cheek, urging him to look at me. "I'm not going anywhere. But you're killing yourself by not taking care of yourself."
His eyes meet mine then, and for a brief moment, I see it—the pain, the fear, the worry that's been gnawing at him for days, maybe longer. He's afraid of losing me. Of me slipping away again, like I almost did. And I get it. I do. But I can't let him burn himself out in the process.
"I can't rest, Cherish," he says, his voice quiet and almost lost. "I can't just... leave you. Not when you've just come back to me. I—I don't know how to let go."
I watch Miras carefully, trying to gauge whether he's going to argue with me again, or if he's finally going to give in. I know how stubborn he can be, but I also know how hard it's been for him to take a step back and admit that he's not invincible. That he needs help.
"I'll eat if you eat," I say, offering a small, teasing smile, even though my own stomach still feels a little off, like it's just now realizing it's been too long since I had anything real.
Miras looks at me, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face, but it's quickly replaced by something else—something darker, like he's still not sure if he can trust that I'm okay enough to push him into something as simple as sharing a meal. "You're not supposed to be worrying about me right now," he says, his voice tight, but there's a softness beneath it, a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
As if he was spying on our conversation, Imani comes back into the room with my dad.
"We're going to try and get your body's strength up by giving you food. We're going to have to start small: water, jello, soup, stuff that's easy to swallow. It's probably still going to be difficult, you might throw it back up. But your body needs proper nutrients."
I don't make an effort to hide my destian about how I feel about having a water, jello and soup diet. Frankly, I'm more worried about getting Miras to eat.
Miras must notice where my attention keeps drifting because he shifts slightly beside me, his knee brushing against the side of my bed. It's subtle, but the message is clear: I'm here. Focus on yourself.
I don't listen.
Instead, I glance up at my dad, whose face is drawn tight in that way it always gets when he's trying not to look worried. He sets a tray down on the rolling table beside me—one of those sterile-looking hospital ones with an unappealing bowl of gelatin, a small cup of broth, and a bottle of water.
It's pitiful.
I make a face, and my dad sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Cherish."
"It's fine," I mumble, dragging my fingers across the scratchy blanket covering my legs. "I get it." I just don't like it.
Imani pushes the tray closer. "Go slow. Your stomach's not ready for anything heavy, and I don't want you getting sick." His gaze flicks toward Miras, lingering. "Both of you need to eat."
Miras exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth pulling downward. "Not this again."
"Yes, this again," Imani says, unimpressed. "I've had to remind you three times today. It's getting old."
Miras doesn't argue, but he also doesn't agree. He just crosses his arms, tension settling into his frame like a wall between him and the conversation.
I know that look.
I know what's about to happen if I let this go on—I've seen it before, the way Miras will dig in his heels, stubborn and unmoving, until the conversation turns into a standoff no one wins.
So I don't let it.
I shift, wincing as I reach for the plastic spoon and scoop up a pitiful amount of red gelatin. It's wobbly and unappetizing, but I don't hesitate before popping it into my mouth.
It's awful.
I school my face into something neutral before looking straight at Miras and pointing my spoon at him. "Your turn."
He stares at me like I've lost my mind.
Imani looks skyward like he's praying for patience. "You don't have to turn this into a competition."
Miras ignores him. "Cherish."
I raise an eyebrow. "Miras."
His lips press together, something caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. But I see the hesitation beneath it, the way his fingers flex against his arms, the tension in his jaw.
I lower the spoon. "You told me once that you don't expect me to be okay all the time," I say softly. "That it's okay to need help. That goes for you, too."
For a moment, he doesn't move.
Then, finally, his shoulders drop just a fraction, and he reaches for the cup of broth on my tray. He takes a small sip, watching me the whole time, as if daring me to make a big deal out of it.
I don't.
I just smile, nudging my foot against his under the blanket.
Imani makes a noise that might be relief. My dad just shakes his head, muttering something about the two of us being impossible.
Miras sets the cup down, wiping his thumb against his palm. "…Happy?"
I nod, lifting another spoonful of jello. "Getting there."