The morning sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds, casting soft stripes across Ayla's bed. Propped up against the pillows, she appeared worn down, with dark circles under her eyes.
The breakfast tray sat untouched beside her: cold scrambled eggs, stiff toast, and orange juice sweating in its glass.
Liam was sitting in a chair close to her bedside, elbows on his knees, watching her with worry written all over his face.
He hadn't gotten much sleep, choosing instead to stay close—making sure she was safe, breathing, right there with him.
"Ayla, you really need to eat something," Liam said gently, grabbing the tray and moving it closer to her. "Just a few bites. Please."
Ayla shook her head, her fingers fidgeting with the thin hospital blanket. "I'm not hungry, Liam. I just want to go home."
"I get it, baby. I do." He picked up the fork and poked at a piece of scrambled egg. "But you heard the doctor yesterday. You need to get your strength back first."
