The morning light was pale and hesitant as it filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the hospital room. Iris woke slowly, her body stiff and her mind foggy, as though sleep had carried her farther from herself than she had realized. She blinked a few times, trying to anchor herself to the present, to the faint hum of the machines, the soft scent of antiseptic, and the faint echo of footsteps in the corridor.
Noah was already there, perched in his usual chair beside her bed. His jacket was draped over the back, his hands folded loosely in his lap. His dark eyes met hers, holding a quiet patience that both comforted and unnerved her.
"Morning," he said softly.
"Morning," she replied, her voice hoarse, almost fragile.
He poured her a small cup of chamomile tea, the steam curling in soft spirals before settling into the air. "Not bitter," he reminded her gently, placing it before her. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup, feeling the gentle weight of it, as though it could tether her to something steady in the whirlwind of her thoughts.