Leah
The hospital cafeteria was louder than the ICU floor. Brighter. Less careful.
I welcomed it.
I paused just inside the doorway, letting the smell of coffee and disinfectant wash over me, letting the low hum of voices anchor my breathing. I felt steadier than I had earlier. Not calm exactly, but braced. Present.
“Leah.”
I turned.
Gabe stood near the coffee machines, one hand wrapped around a paper cup, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. He looked different today. Lighter. His shoulders weren’t hunched the way they’d been the last few times I’d seen him. There was color in his face.
“Hey,” I said, surprised by how easy it felt to smile back.
“Good news,” he said immediately. “My dad’s up and walking. Complaining about the food. The doctors think he’ll be discharged tomorrow
