Chapter 20
Aaron
The first thing I notice is the sound. A slow, steady rhythm. Too steady. Too precise.
Then comes the light, sharp and white behind my eyelids. I try to move and the world tilts, sluggish and wrong.
Someone’s talking. Two voices, close by. A man and a woman.
“Easy now,” one of them says—the man. “You’re in hospital. You’re safe. Don’t try to move too fast.”
Hospital.
The word drifts through the fog in my head, catching on something that feels like memory—noise, heat, dust—and then nothing.
I open my eyes, or try to. It takes more effort than it should. There’s a doctor leaning over me, a nurse beside him. They’re saying something about breathing tubes and recovery, but it’s hard to focus.
There’s something in my throat, something that shouldn’t be there. I gag, panic rising, but the nurse’s hand settles on my shoulder, steady and reassuring.
“It’s all right,” she says. “You’ve been intubated to help you breathe. We’ll remove it in a moment, once you’re properly awake.”
I blink, trying to make sense of the room—the blur of machines, the quiet hum. Then I see movement to my right.
Will. He’s standing near the door, dark circles under his eyes, giving me a look that’s half relief, half exhaustion.
And then my eyes shift, and I see her.
Eve.
She’s standing a little apart, pale, eyes wide, frozen like she’s afraid to breathe.
Something inside me stirs—not quite thought, not quite feeling—just a deep, unshakable pull.
I lift my hand. It takes more effort than I expect, but I manage it. I hold it out towards her.
For a heartbeat she doesn’t move. Finally, she steps forward, takes my hand, and everything in me unclenches.
I don’t hear what the doctor says next. All I can think about is the warmth of her fingers in mine.
Then his voice cuts through, gentle but firm. “All right, Aaron, we’re going to remove the tube now. It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’ll feel better once it’s out.”
I tighten my grip on her hand. She squeezes back, and the tension drains from me.
There’s movement all around me. The doctor’s voice comes and goes, instructions to the nurse, machines clicking softly, then the quiet rush of air as the breathing tube is removed, a sound that still doesn’t feel like breathing should.
Someone shines a light into my eyes. I flinch, and the doctor murmurs an apology. “Good,” he says. “Reaction’s normal. The swelling’s gone down. You gave us a scare for a while there, but it looks like you’re on the right track.”
I try to nod, though the effort makes everything tilt again.
Will steps closer once the doctor steps back. His voice is low and steady, but there’s strain underneath it. “You hit your head when the blast went off. They pulled you out after the second wave. You’ve been in a coma for nearly two weeks.”
Two weeks. It doesn’t sound real.
He goes on, short and factual, the way people do when they’ve already told the story too many times. The convoy, the hospital in Turkey, the flight home. I listen, but none of it feels like it belongs to me.
Eve hasn’t said a word. She’s beside me, her fingers wrapped around my hand so tightly it almost hurts—and I don’t want her to let go.
When Will finishes, there’s a long silence. The doctor glances at the chart, then looks at me. “You’re doing well, Aaron. Do you need anything? Water? More pain relief?”
I shake my head, then glance towards Eve. My voice comes out rough, still strange from the tube. “Can I… have a minute? Just us?”
The doctor gives a quick nod, professional but kind. “Of course. We’ll be right outside.”
Will squeezes my shoulder before following them out. The door clicks shut, and the room feels suddenly too quiet—just the beeping monitor, her breathing, and the weight of everything we haven’t said yet.
Eve’s still holding my hand, her knuckles white, her eyes fixed on mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she blinks. Then, slowly, she lets go only to step closer.
Her hands come up to my face, tentative at first, as if she needs to make sure I’m real. Her palms are cool against my skin, her touch trembling.
When our eyes meet, hers are shining.
“I love you,” she whispers.
The words hit harder than anything else has… not because they’re unexpected, but because they’re the first thing that makes complete sense.
She takes a shaky breath. “I’ve spent nearly every hour since you got here sitting right in this chair, waiting for you to wake up. I told myself that if you did, I’d say it. So I’m saying it.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat’s raw, my head’s still foggy, but I lift my hand—slow, careful—and cover hers where it rests against my cheek.
I try to smile, but it comes out small. “You just made waking up worth it.”
A week later, I’m home.
It doesn’t feel quite real yet. The world still moves a fraction faster than I do, and even the short drive from the hospital has left me tired in a way that doesn’t make sense.
Will and Eve guide me carefully into the flat, one on each side like they’re afraid I might vanish if they let go.
They get me to the sofa. Eve fusses with the cushions until she’s satisfied I’m comfortable, then tucks a blanket over my legs.
I want to tell her I don’t need it, but I like the way her hands linger just a second longer than necessary.
Will stands back, surveying the situation like a man finishing a job. “Right,” he says, “that’s you settled.” He glances at Eve. “You’re sure you don’t need another pair of hands? I can stay the night, help out.”
Eve shakes her head, calm but firm. “We’ll be fine.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes,” she says. “Go home, Will. You’ve done enough.”
He looks between us, then sighs. “All right. But if he gives you trouble, just say the word. He’s meant to be resting, not reorganising the furniture.”
That earns the faintest smile from her and a quiet snort from me.
“Go on,” I rasp. “Before you start fluffing the cushions too.”
“Behave, both of you,” he grins and heads for the door.
When it shuts behind him, I lean back against the cushions, the effort of the day catching up with me. “Sorry,” I say quietly.
Eve glances over. “For what?”
“For making you come all the way to London,” I say. “For scaring you like that.”
Her expression softens, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. “I think I’d go anywhere for you,” she says simply.
For a second, I can’t speak. The air feels thick with all the things I want to say and can’t find the strength for.
Before I can try, she clears her throat and reaches for her bag. “Actually,” she says, a little shyly, “I brought you something.”
She hands me a small parcel, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string. I look at it, then at her. “You didn’t have to—”
“Just open it,” she says, trying not to smile.
I do, unravelling the string slowly. Inside, cushioned in tissue paper, is a soft toy—small, pink, ridiculous. A stuffed pig.
It takes me a second to recognise it, then I laugh, though my chest tightens with the effort. “Bernard’s pig?”
“Not the same one,” she says quickly, smiling now. “I didn’t steal his. But I found one just like it.”
I hold it up, the tiny stitched snout pointing accusingly at her. “You’re giving me a comfort pig?”
“An emotional support pig,” she corrects. “To match his.”
I shake my head, still grinning. “You realise this is going to be hard to explain if Will ever drops by.”
“He’ll cope,” she says softly. “You both will.”
I look at the little toy again, then at her. “Thank you.”
She meets my eyes, her smile fading into something quieter. “You scared me,” she whispers.
“I know.” I reach out, my fingers brushing hers. “But I’m here.”
For a moment, that’s enough. The room feels still again, filled with the kind of silence that doesn’t need fixing.
After a while, I clear my throat. “So… where do we go from here?”
She hesitates, then gives a small shrug. “I can stay another week or two. I can work from here.”
I nod, though I already know what she’s not saying. “But London’s not your place.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “No,” she admits quietly. “It isn’t.”
I lean back, the idea forming as I speak. “What if we go back to St Claire for a bit? Rent one of the cottages. Somewhere near the hills. You can work, I can recover properly, and Bernard can supervise.”
That earns a small laugh, the first real one I’ve heard from her in days. “And for how long, exactly?”
I smile, slow and certain. “A few weeks to start. And if we like it… maybe forever.”
She looks at me for a long time, searching my face like she’s trying to see if I mean it.
Then she nods, the tiniest movement. “All right,” she says softly. “Let’s try.”
I reach for her hand again, and she lets me hold it.
Her fingers fit against mine like they’ve always known where to rest.
For a while neither of us speaks. The city buzzes quietly beyond the windows, but here, everything feels still, like the world’s finally decided to give us a moment to breathe.
“I need to tell you something,” I say after a pause. My voice still isn’t strong, but the words come easily.
She tilts her head. “What’s that?”
“I don’t remember much about what happened out there,” I say slowly. “It’s all bits and flashes—noise, heat, light. But I remember the last thought I had before everything went black.”
Her brow creases, waiting.
“It was you,” I say simply. “Not the work, not the fear, not whether we’d make it out. Just you. Your voice, your laugh, the way you looked when we said goodbye at Skipton.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes shine again, but she doesn’t look away.
“I love you, Eve,” I say. “I think I did long before I realised it.”
For a moment she just stares at me, as if she’s trying to memorise every word. Then she leans in, rests her forehead against mine, and whispers, “I love you, too.”
The quiet stretches between us, soft and steady.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, it feels like the world’s turning the right way again.