Levi's POV...

"How's your pain level right now? One being least, ten being worst," Charlotte asks.

Pain. I hadn't even been thinking about it—too consumed by panic. But the moment she mentions it, the throbbing in my back roars into focus.

"Uh... four," I lie.

Her brows lift slightly, like she sees through me. Without a word, she pulls extra pillows from the closet, sliding them under my arms with careful precision.

"I'm just going to adjust your posture so you're more comfortable."

Before I can answer, her hands slip behind my shoulders, shifting my upper body an inch to the left. My torso doesn't move on its own; it's her lifting me, guiding me like I'm a marionette. The realization makes my throat burn. I want to cry.

"Better?" Her eyes are worried.

"Yeah," I manage, this time honest. The sharp pressure eases.
She softens. "I'm sorry for the chaos earlier. It must've been terrifying, not knowing why you're here."

No shit. The bitter thought flashes before I can stop it. She doesn't deserve that. She's trying. I nod instead, swallowing hard.

"Can you... tell me again what happened? How I got here?" My voice cracks. God, I hope I don't sound like a complete asshole.

Her lips curve in a small smile. "Of course."

She explains: the car, the impact, the surgery to stabilize my spine. The flight to Boston. Mark finding this experimental program and pushing to get me in the only open slot. I was too drugged to understand any of it.

"It was crucial to start therapy immediately," she finishes, her gaze steady on mine. "To keep your nerves active. To give you the best chance of regaining movement."

I don't understand. Not really. I'm paralyzed. How do you fix that? But her eyes—hazel flecked with blue, green, even gold—draw me in. They're... steady. Not pitying, not desperate. Just sure.

She asks to test the rest of my body. I nod.

Her hands work down my left arm, firm and precise. When she tells me to squeeze, all I manage is a twitch. My chest hollows out. She just smiles gently.

"That's okay. You can feel me, right? This is our baseline. From here, we build."

Baseline. I cling to the word like it means something.
She moves to my right leg, pressing along my thigh to my toes. "Can you feel this?"

"No," I snap, too harsh, anger spilling before I can stop it. My chest seizes, breath ragged.

"Just breathe," she says, voice calm, steady. And against all odds, I do.

She presses my thigh, my knee, my calf. Sensation flickers back—faint, but there.

"Try lifting your knee."

I want to laugh at the absurdity. Then—movement. An inch off the bed. Her smile lights up the room.

"That's brilliant, Levi."

And for the first time since I woke up, I almost believe her. I even smile back.

The left leg is worse. Barely a twitch. Still, she beams like its progress.

She explains the therapy—sixteen-hour days, twelve to eighteen months, a lifetime's worth of patience. Maybe crutches. Maybe a wheelchair forever. The words blur. My chest tightens. My eyes sting.

She leans forward, tucking a strand of light brown hair behind her ear before brushing tears from my cheeks—tears I can't wipe myself. Humiliation floods me, and more tears follow.

"I know you're angry. I know you're scared." Her hand squeezes mine, grounding. "But I'll be with you every step of the way. We'll get you back to living, Levi. You don't have to face this alone."

Her certainty is terrifying. And strangely comforting.
She excuses herself, promising to send her assistant.

The door closes.

Warmth spreads under the blanket. I glance down. Wet. Shame punches through me.

"Fuck," I whisper hoarsely. "Does any part of me even work anymore?"