Naomi’s POV
The room smelled like antiseptic and flowers. My body still felt like it had been dragged through a blender, but the pain was dulled now—like everything was quieter, slower, easier to manage.
Layla had kicked off her heels and was now sitting cross-legged on the bed beside me like it was a damn sleepover and not a hospital recovery room. My mom sat in the chair on the other side, humming softly as she knit what looked like a terrible version of a scarf, though I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. It was hideous. But in that warm, mom way.
“I’m serious,” Layla was saying, waving her hands with dramatic flair. “If Elias Hunt says one more vaguely polite thing to me, I swear I will fall in love and name our future children after Greek gods.”
I snorted. “You talked to him
