Thomas's POV
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The persistent rhythm drags me from blissful darkness. Pain creeps in next—a dull throb in my ribs, sharper jabs when I try to breathe too deeply. My head feels like someone took a baseball bat to it.
Must be Tuesday.
I pry my eyes open to sterile white walls and the unmistakable antiseptic smell of hospital rooms. Turning my head—which hurts like a b***h—I spot Claire slumped in a chair beside my bed. Her laptop sits precariously on her knees, screen dark. Notes and papers are scattered across her lap like autumn leaves. Poor kid's exhausted.
Can't blame her. We all had one hell of a night.
She stirs as if sensing my gaze, blinking herself awake. When our eyes meet, relief washes over her face before her reporter instincts kick in.
"You're awake," she
