We stayed on the sofa for another half hour, the silence broken only by the steady rhythm of our breathing. It was an anchor, a proof that we were both still there, together. When Ava finally stirred, it wasn't to pull away, but to shift, seeking a slightly more comfortable position against me.
"I should really call the hospital back," she said, her voice husky. "And probably sleep. I feel like I've been hit by a truck."
I helped her stand, watching her movements carefully. Her pale skin and the slight wobble in her stance were sharp reminders of how close I had come to losing her. That fear fueled the next move, the next necessary variable I needed to introduce into our newly honest life.
I supported her as we walked toward the staircase, and I paused at the bottom step, turning her gently to face me.
