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her.”
    Rike
glances at me. We’re in the hospital cafeteria, sitting across from each other
in a booth. He’s been sketching for almost an hour while I journal. But I
haven’t really written anything. It’s been over a week since I woke up, and my
days have a pattern. Morning physical therapy and counseling. Texting with
Rike. Afternoons spent playing card games and listening to ridiculous jokes
while he stares at me with cloudy blue eyes that are full of secrets.
    I
wish I knew why he was here. I wish I didn’t feel like he was hiding something
from me. And I wish I was brave enough to demand to know what it was.
    But
I’m not. And fighting with my doctors and psychiatrist about my insistence to
keep my family at a distance has been consuming me.
    Rike
looks distant, nibbling at his lip in a way that is way too fucking
distracting.
    “Who?”
    “Lindsay,”
I say. We came in together. Maybe I know her. It makes sense. And what if she’s all alone like I am?”

 
    His
eyebrows go up. “I didn't think you were alone,” he says.

 
    I
flush . “You know what I mean.”

 
    Rike
sighs and put his pencil aside, giving me his full attention. “I do know what
you mean but I need you to hear me. You aren't alone. I'm here. I’m not going
away.”

 
    We
sit in silence for a long moment staring at each other and then, “But I don't
understand why,” I say.

 
    He
smiles, that mysterious smile I adore and stands up, “You don't have to
understand why. Come on. You’re right: seeing
her will do you some good.”

 
    He
helps me into my wheelchair —the doctors want me in it
until the casts come off my leg and arm— and tucks a blanket around me,
always with that careful caution that I'm coming to expect.

 
    He
treats me with such reverent care, like a strong wind will shatter me. And it
might. I know nothing about who I am — sometimes,
it feels like he is all that holds me together.

 
    I
catch his hand as he straightens and his eyes flash to mine. Hungry and
questioning and so intense it takes my breath away for a moment.

 
    I
want to kiss him. I don't know why, but I do , and I think he can see that desire my eyes. He leans into me, his forehead
against mine. "You’re making this so hard, Peyton ,"
he murmurs.

 
    "Sorry,"
I say faintly , and his lips twitch a little.

 
    "No,
you aren’t."

 
    I
grin. I’m really not. I fucking love that I’m affecting him.

 
    Rike
sighs, and straightens. “Behave.”

 
    “You
don’t really want me to,” I sass, and he barks a laugh as he pushes me through
the cafeteria and into the halls of the hospital.
    The
playful mood slips away as we get closer to the ICU. I’m nervous, suddenly, as
the doors swing open and the sterile environment stares back at me.
    A
nurse offers me and me—Rike, especially—a friendly smile, but he ignores it as
he steers me deeper into the unit. Until we come to a stop at unit seventeen.
    There
is a steady beeping, the constant hum of machines, and it’s comforting. It
means life—maybe broken, but still life.
    Rike
pulls open the door and maneuvers me in deftly, and the door swings shut behind
me.
    I
barely notice. My entire being is focused on the girl in the bed.
    Her
hair is chopped brutally short, almost shaved, and she’s covered in bruises.
She’s wrapped in bandages, so fucking beat up I want to cry. “You didn’t tell
me it was this bad.”
    “You
didn’t need to know this, Peyton.”
    “That
isn’t your call,” I say harshly. “You aren’t part of my life. You don’t even know me.”
    “Don’t
argue,” a voice says. I startle. The movement jars my leg, and I hiss in pain
as it slices into me, hot and searing.
    Rike
is by my side instantly, his hands catching mine, gentle. His voice is
soothing, centering me, and it keeps me in the moment, focused on something
other than the pain.
    “Come
on, Pey , breathe though it,” he murmurs, and I gasp, tears stinging my eyes. Nod at him as