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"Good morning. How are we feeling today?"

"Better," I admit. "The bleeding seems to have stopped."

"Excellent. Let's take a look." She checks my chart, reviews the overnight notes. "Your numbers look good. Blood pressure's a bit low, but that's expected. Any cramping?"

"No."

"Good. I think we can get you home today, as long as you understand the bed rest requirements."

"I understand."

"I mean it," she emphasizes. "Modified bed rest means lying down most of the day. You can get up for bathroom breaks, brief showers, moving from bed to couch. That's it. No cooking, no cleaning, no lifting anything heavier than a cup of tea."

"For how long?"

"Minimum two weeks. Then we'll do another ultrasound, see how the hemorrhage looks." She makes notes in my chart. "Do you have someone who can help? This isn't something you can do alone."

"She's got me," Regnor says immediately. "And our entire family."

Dr. Sims nods approvingly. "Good. Support makes all the difference. I'll get your discharge paperwork started. Should have you out of here by noon."

After she leaves, reality hits me.

Two weeks minimum of lying around, dependent on others for everything.

For someone used to taking care of herself, saving others, being active—it feels like a prison sentence.

"Where am I going to go?" I ask. "My apartment?—"

"Is off limits," Regnor finishes. "Dylan knows where it is. You're coming back to the clubhouse."

"Your room isn't exactly set up for someone on bed rest."

"Then we'll set it up. Get a better bed, comfortable chair, whatever you need." He cups my face. "This is not negotiable, Everly. You're staying where I can protect you."

"Okay," I whisper.

"Good girl."

The morning passes in a blur of discharge paperwork and instructions.

A nurse removes my IV, checks my vitals one more time.

Regnor helps me change into the clothes Mom brought—soft leggings and one of his t-shirts that hangs loose over my slightly swollen belly.

"Ready?" he asks as a nurse appears with a wheelchair.

"I can walk?—"

"Hospital policy," the nurse says cheerfully. "All patients leave in a wheelchair."

I submit to the indignity, letting them wheel me through the hospital.

Regnor stays close, one hand on my shoulder, protective and possessive.

The ride to the clubhouse is careful, Regnor driving one of the club trucks like he's transporting fine china.

"I'm not going to break," I tell him as he takes a turn at approximately two miles per hour.