The second morning came wrapped in that faint antiseptic light that hospitals never lose — white, steady, merciless.
Alexander woke properly this time, not in fragments. The world was clearer, sharper. He could feel the cold railing beneath his fingers, the scratch of the oxygen line, the stiffness of muscles that hadn't moved in days.
There was no storm outside now. Only the muted hum of the city beneath the hospital windows — Manchester coming back to life.
The nurse, the same one who had greeted him when he first woke, came in with a smile.
"Well, look who's properly back," she said gently. "You gave us all quite a scare."
He managed a faint smile. "How long?"
"Four days in the induced coma," she said, adjusting his IV. "The swelling's down, vitals are stable. You're a very lucky man."
His gaze drifted to the clock. Four days.
He had missed her labour. The thought struck so hard he nearly forgot to breathe.
"When can I be discharged?" he asked.
She raised a brow, amused. "You've just opened your eyes, and you're already trying to leave us?"
"I need to see my wife," he said simply. "And my son."
The nurse's expression softened. "We'll see what the doctors say after your scans."
By midmorning, the parade began: radiology, neurology, cardiology — each name ending with ology and each meaning more waiting.
They wheeled him through corridors that smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, past nurses chatting softly, past a window where the sky was turning silver.
He answered questions — his name, the date, the colour of the Prime Minister's tie in a photo they showed him. He passed every test.
Still, each room ended the same way: "We'll review and let the consultant decide."
Patience had never been his virtue.
He wanted her.
By early afternoon, he was back in his room when the door opened again. This time it wasn't a nurse but a doctor — middle-aged, composed, kind-eyed, the name tag reading Dr. Patel.
"Mr. Harrington," he said warmly, glancing over the clipboard. "I'm the one who oversaw your case after the crash. You've made quite the recovery."
Alexander tried to sit up straighter. "I'm ready to see my family."
The doctor gave a small, cautious smile. "Let's take things step by step, shall we?"
He began his exam, professional and thorough. Reflex tests, pupils, coordination. Alexander answered everything without hesitation. His head throbbed faintly, but otherwise, he felt solid — grounded. Alive.
After twenty minutes, Dr. Patel set the stethoscope aside.
"Well," he said finally, "you seem remarkably well for someone who spun their car across three lanes of traffic."
Alexander's lips twitched into a tired smile. "I don't recommend it."
"No," Patel said with a faint chuckle. "Neither do I."
The smile faded as Alexander leaned forward.
"Doctor, please. I know what you're going to say — rest, observation, protocols — but I can't lie here while she's upstairs not knowing if I'm alive. She went through the birth without me. I need to go to her. Please."
The doctor hesitated. The professional line in his mind was clear — no transfers without full clearance, no exceptions. But something in Alexander's face gave him pause. The man's hands were trembling, his voice steady but breaking underneath.
"She doesn't even know I'm awake," Alexander said quietly. "She gave birth to our son while I was unconscious. I have to tell her I'm here. That I'm fine."
Dr. Patel sighed, long and thoughtful. "You understand, if I allow this, it's against standard protocol."
"I'll sign whatever you need me to sign."
"You could collapse again."
"I won't."
The silence stretched. Then the doctor smiled faintly — the kind of smile that comes from somewhere deeply human.
"Alright. But ten minutes. One nurse accompanies you. No heroics."
Alexander exhaled, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Thank you. Thank you."
The nurses helped him stand. His legs wobbled at first — heavy, stiff — but the ground held. They guided him into the small ensuite, where steam rose from a running shower.
"Let's get you feeling like yourself again," one of them said.
The water was warm, startling against his skin. He braced one hand against the tiled wall, eyes closed, letting the world wash back over him — the scent of soap, the hum of pipes, the awareness of being alive.
When they brought clean clothes — soft hospital cotton, nothing grand — he dressed with quiet care. For the first time in days, he looked vaguely human again.
By the time the wheelchair arrived, the nurse from the night before was waiting by the door.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice gentle but teasing.
He nodded. "More than ready."
They moved slowly through the corridors. Every turn, every passing trolley felt like an eternity. His heart pounded faster with each floor they climbed.
When the lift doors opened onto the maternity ward, he stopped breathing for a moment.
The scent was different up here — softer, powdered milk and warm linen and new beginnings.
The nurse smiled. "She's in room twelve. I'll walk you to the door."
The hallway blurred around him as they moved. His pulse echoed in his ears.
And then — the door. White. Closed. A small sign with her name.
He stood there for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle, too afraid to move.
The nurse smiled and stepped back.
"I'll wait here," she whispered. "Take your time."
Alexander drew in a breath that trembled all the way down.
And then he knocked — once, softly — before opening the door to see the love of his life and the tiny miracle she'd brought into the world.
The knock was soft—almost shy.
Amelia didn't look up at first. She was adjusting the folds of the blanket around her sleeping son, listening to the steady hush of his breath and the muted sounds of the ward outside. Visitors had come and gone all day; she'd learned the rhythm of those gentle taps: nurses, then family, then quiet again.
"Come in," she called, expecting a kind smile and a clipboard.
The door eased open.
She looked up.
And the world left her.
"Alexander," she breathed—no sound at all and somehow everything at once. The name broke out of her like dawn breaking a long night.
He was there. Not a memory, not a wish, not a voice on a phone she couldn't answer—there. Pale, thinner, moving carefully, but upright. His eyes were wet before hers were.
She was on her feet before she knew she'd moved. The blanket settled back in the crib, their son hardly stirred, and she crossed the short distance as if the floor had turned to air.
She collided with him, arms flung around his neck, fingers fisting in the soft cotton of his hospital shirt. He caught her with a low, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and pulled her in as if letting go might undo the miracle.
For a long, ragged moment, there was no hospital, no monitors, no corridor or storm beyond the glass. Only the shape of them, pressed together, breathing the same breath like people who had almost learned to live without it.
"You're here," she cried against his shoulder, the words tumbling and shaking. "You're here, you're here—"
"I'm here," he whispered into her hair, voice raw. "I'm so sorry. I'm so—" The apology cracked, fell apart. He held her tighter. "You did it. You did everything."
"I thought—" She couldn't finish. The panic of two nights ago rose and dissolved as he cupped the back of her head and rested his forehead to hers.
"Look at me," he said softly. She did. His eyes were glassy, bright, a little unfocused from everything he'd been through—but certain. "I'm not going anywhere."
She laughed that small, broken laugh that belongs only to people who survive something together. "Good. Because I can't do any of this without you."
He kissed her—slow, grateful, reverent—and when they parted, he glanced sideways toward the crib like a man seeing sunlight for the first time.
"Is he—?" The question failed him. Wonder finished it.
Amelia nodded, still crying and smiling, and turned. "Come sit," she whispered, guiding him to the small sofa by the window. He moved carefully, and she hovered, one hand at his shoulder as if he might vanish without the anchor of touch. When he sank down, his breath trembled; the effort had cost him more than he wanted her to see.
"Okay?" she asked.
"Better than okay," he said, and tried to laugh, but emotion stole it. He wiped a sleeve across his cheek, surprised to find tears there. "I didn't know waking up could hurt this much—in a good way."
She went to the crib and gathered their son with the care of someone lifting a star. The baby stirred, made a soft, indignant sound, then settled the instant he felt warmth. Amelia tucked the blanket beneath his chin and, with hands that shook for an entirely new reason, crossed back to the sofa.
"Ready?" she whispered.
His mouth softened. "I've been ready for you since the first day I met you. For him…" He swallowed. "I've been ready my whole life."
Amelia lowered their son into his arms.
Alexander's entire body changed. The tension slipped from his shoulders, the room hushed around the tiny weight placed in his hands. He looked down as if the universe had just introduced itself—slowly, carefully, in a language only love understands.
"Hello," he whispered, the word breaking as it came. "I'm your dad." He laughed at himself, breathless. "Your very useless, late-to-the-party dad."
The baby blinked in that drifting way of the newly born, mouth puckering, eyelids fluttering like moth wings. A fist escaped the blanket and opened—five perfect fingers reaching nowhere and everything at once. Alexander offered a finger; the tiny hand closed with startling strength.
"Strong," he murmured, awe widening his eyes. "Like your mum."
"Bossy," Amelia teased through a smile, swiping a tear with the back of her hand. "Like your dad."
They sat like that, the three of them, while the snowmelt light pooled on the windowsill and the soft hospital hum receded behind the sound of a newborn breathing.
Alexander counted features as if they were talismans. "Your nose," he said quietly. "My mouth, maybe. And these"—he brushed a knuckle over the ghost of dark hair—"this is entirely unfair. I was bald till I was two."
"He was early," Amelia said, her voice going soft with the memory. "Impatient. He wanted to meet you."
He bowed his head, cheek brushing the baby's temple. "I missed it," he whispered, and the apology returned, hollowed with grief. "You were brave and I wasn't there."
"You were alive," she answered, simple and absolute. "That's all we needed from you."
He closed his eyes, breath catching. When he opened them again, they were steadier. "We were supposed to choose his name together," he said, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. "You waited."
"I did." She sank beside him, their shoulders touching. "It mattered."
He turned, searching her face, and found exactly what he'd hoped—no reproach, no shadow. Only the quiet certainty that had drawn him to her on the very first day: the woman who could stand in a storm and not mistake thunder for destiny.
"Then we'll choose," he said. "Together. When the world stops swaying."
She laughed—soft, exhausted, golden. "Deal."
The baby made a small, squeaking sound—half yawn, half question. Alexander startled, then laughed at himself, that low, disbelieving sound of a man remade.
"He squeaks," he whispered. "They squeak."
"They squeak," Amelia confirmed solemnly.
He leaned back, careful to keep his son's head supported, and let the silence expand. For a while they said nothing at all. They watched the last of the afternoon slide down the sky, turning the city's edges to amber. Somewhere in the corridor, a trolley rolled past. A distant monitor chimed. Here, in their small square of peace, time became gentle.
"What do you remember?" she asked at last, her voice barely above the hush. "Of the accident?"
"Snow," he said, eyes still on their son. "Too bright. Too fast. Lights in the mirror. The wheel pulling, like it wanted something I didn't." He shook his head, as if casting it away. "And then nothing. Then you."
She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. "You came back."
"To you," he said.
Their son stirred, mouth seeking, and let out the smallest complaint. Amelia reached to adjust the blanket, but Alexander was already moving, instinct learning itself in his hands.
"Here," he murmured, rocking a fraction, the way he'd seen in a hundred waiting rooms and never imagined would live in his bones. The baby settled, a soft sigh leaving him like trust made into breath.
"You'll be good at this," Amelia said.
"I have an excellent teacher," he replied, eyes lifting to hers. "And a very strict supervisor." He nodded at the bundle. "He's already got me under review."
"Welcome to HR," she said, and they both smiled, the joke warm and ridiculous and perfect.
A knock brushed the edge of the moment. The nurse who had escorted him stood in the doorway, apology already written in her gentle face. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I promised ten minutes."
Amelia's hand found his. "Stay," she whispered, pleading before she could stop herself.
Alexander looked up at the nurse. "Please."
The nurse sighed, glanced at the clock, then at the way his hands held the baby. Something in her softened further. "Two more," she said. "Then back downstairs. Doctor's orders."
"Thank you," they said together, and the nurse's smile answered, quiet and complicit. She closed the door as soundlessly as she had opened it.
Two minutes is nothing, he thought—and it was everything. He used them like a drowning man uses air: fully, gratefully, without waste.
He traced one last circle on his son's blanketed back. "We'll name you soon," he promised. "We'll tell you the whole story. Not the headlines—the truth." He turned to Amelia. "And then we'll go home."
She nodded, tears bright again but no longer heavy. "All of us."
When the nurse slipped back in, he didn't argue. He kissed the baby's forehead, held there a heartbeat longer than he was allowed, and gave him back to Amelia with hands that didn't want to let go.
He stood, unsteady but certain. Amelia rose too, and they met in a final, fierce hug—the kind that writes itself into a body.
"I'll be here first thing," he said. "Before the sun remembers its name."
"We'll be waiting," she whispered.
He touched the baby's brow with one trembling finger, touched Amelia's cheek with the same reverence, and then let the nurse lead him away. At the door, he looked back once—memorised the frame of them, the crib, the pale tulips on the sill—and smiled like a man who had decided to spend the rest of his life learning how to say thank you.
The door clicked softly. The room exhaled.
Amelia sank onto the sofa, drew her son close, and closed her eyes. Down the corridor, the wheel of a chair whispered on linoleum. Above the city, evening gathered its lights.
Almost there, she thought, and this time the words didn't hurt. They warmed.
Almost there. And then—home.