Chapter 6 — First Steps Outside
I woke that morning to sunlight spilling lazily through the blinds, warming the edges of the room in a way that made the hospital walls feel impossibly small. For the first time in a week, the ache in my ribs was manageable, more a reminder than a threat. My chest rose and fell without sharp protests, and I realized I could finally take a deep breath without wincing.
At the edge of my vision, a faint shimmer of soft blue light appeared. Not a greeting, not a fanfare — just the system, quiet and precise.
New Main Quest: Support Ava Outside the Hospital
Objective: Help Ava relax and enjoy a calm, low-pressure outing
Reward: Intermediate Cooking Skill
It wasn't flashy, but it mattered. An upgrade to my beginner cooking skill, one I could use later, something tangible.
I stretched carefully, testing my ribs, and saw a shadow at the door. Ava stepped in, bag in hand, looking tired but presentable — loose hair framing her face, hoodie and leggings, casual and unpolished in a way that made her seem entirely human.
"Morning," she said softly, setting her bag down and peering at me.
"Morning," I replied, voice rough. "Ready for the real world?"
She smiled faintly, shrugging. "I think so. Mostly."
I grabbed my crutches, testing my balance. "Mostly is better than never," I said, trying to keep it light.
She stepped closer, eyes scanning me, taking in my slow adjustments. "You're moving faster than yesterday," she said. "Not that I'm measuring, of course."
"High praise," I muttered. My ribs protested slightly, but I let myself grin.
We moved through the sliding glass doors, out into the campus courtyard, sunlight spilling over brick paths and green lawns. Students hurried past, earbuds in, coffee in hand. The noise felt alive, but somehow calmer than I'd feared.
Ava fell into step beside me. Social Insight tickled in the back of my mind, nudging me to notice: she flinched slightly as a cyclist zoomed past, a micro-tension in her shoulders as she passed a group of laughing students. Nothing dramatic — she wasn't uncomfortable with me — but the outside world wasn't yet as safe as the hospital room.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
She exhaled softly. "Yeah. Just… a lot of noise."
I glanced at her, Soulful Gaze doing nothing more than keeping my eyes steady, inviting her attention without pressure. She didn't flinch, didn't pull back. Her pace slowed to match mine, close enough that I felt the small heat of her presence, comforting in its normalcy.
The café was our destination. She hesitated as we approached, frowning slightly at the line of students. "I… I don't really like crowds," she admitted.
"Then let's grab something to go," I suggested. "Coffee, pastries — no drama."
She nodded, relief softening her expression. We ordered quickly, laughing at the absurd prices and the overly complicated drink names. I teased her about the caramel drizzle she insisted on, and she rolled her eyes, pretending to glare but smiling all the while.
We found a quiet corner outside, sun warming our shoulders. She carried her latte carefully, hands wrapped around it like a shield. I sat opposite her, trying not to spill my own.
"You're… really perceptive," she said after a long pause, tracing the rim of her cup. "You notice everything, don't you?"
"Not everything," I replied with a shrug. "Just… the small stuff that matters. Most of it, doesn't even anyway."
She smiled faintly. "...it matters to me."
I realized then that this was a moment, delicate and quiet, that the system couldn't force or quantify. Daily Quest or Main Quest — it didn't matter. I was simply here, noticing, present.
By the afternoon, we had wandered through the quad, stopping for small things: watching the squirrels fight over discarded leaves, avoiding a cyclist who had almost clipped me, laughing over some poorly timed joke about the campus shuttle. She leaned on me occasionally, subtly, and I let her. The week of hospital visits had built a rhythm; outside, it was a new rhythm — slower, careful, tentative, but comforting.
When we reached a small garden behind the science building, she crouched slightly to examine a flowerbed. "I like this spot," she said. "it's quiet. Hidden."
"Perfect for hiding from life," I said. She laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, looking up at me with unguarded eyes. Soulful Gaze seemed to keep her attention fixed without me needing to say a word, simple and natural.
"Can we… maybe cook something tomorrow? Together?" I asked, breaking the soft silence.
Her brow lifted, lips parting slightly. "Cook? Together?"
"Yeah. Something Simple. Pizza, sandwiches, nothing complicated. I just thought it could be fun — low-pressure... give you a chance to unwind."
Her eyes softened. "Okay… I'd like that."
"Besides I believe you promised me a bakery's worth of food," I teased with a grin on my face.
Ava gained back at me and nodded along, "Oh yes of course, you and your food offerings, even though you're now out of the hospital?"
"It's precisely besucse I'm out of the hospital that I want to eat more with you." I whispered under my breath. Ava seemed to pause at that but didn't comment.
As we started walking back, we relaxed into a peaceful silence.
We walked back toward campus, conversation drifting from classes to absurdities we'd noticed along the way. Her laughter was easy, relaxed, genuine.
At the dorm entrance, I paused. "Same time tomorrow?"
She hesitated, then nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at her lips. "Same time."
I watched her go, chest tight, but warmer than it had been that morning.
The next morning
Sunlight struck harder, filling my small apartment kitchen where we had decided to meet. Ava arrived as I was arranging ingredients. She had tied back her hair, sleeves rolled up slightly. I grinned, crutches leaned against the counter, ready to step into the new challenge.
"You really planned this out, huh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Just trying to not burn down the kitchen on day one," I teased.
She laughed, and the sound bounced off the walls, carrying a warmth that made my chest swell.
We began with something simple — homemade pizzas. I chopped vegetables while she stirred sauces. Social Insight whispered subtle cues: she hesitated at the edge of a slice, distracted. I offered a gentle nudge — "Need a hand?" — and she allowed me to guide her without noticing it.
By mid-afternoon, our movements had synchronized, small jokes punctuating the silence: a stray tomato slice flicked onto my shirt, a laugh, a comment about my chopping skills, and another about her insistence on over-seasoning the sauce.
We ate together, side by side, and for the first time outside of the hospital, I felt a sense of normalcy — two people laughing and talking without expectation, without the weight of life threatening accidents hanging over us.
As she gathered her bag at the end of the day, she paused, looking up at me with a quiet sincerity. "Thanks," she said softly.
"For what?" I asked.
"For making this… not awkward. For letting me be me."
I shrugged, trying not to let the small flutter in my chest show. "Not a problem. I've got practice with hospital patients. I also really enjoyed it."
She smiled — real, unforced — and I felt a surge of warmth behind my eyes, quiet and human.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, though I knew she'd say yes.
"Same time," she confirmed, and left with a wave.
I leaned against the counter, feeling the small but undeniable pulse of progress. Stats had nudged slightly, not because magic dictated it, but because I had noticed, I had acted, I had connected.
The week of hospital visits, the first outing, the first shared activity — it was all building something subtle and strong. Trust. Comfort. Connection. Human, patient, and entirely ours.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt ready to see where this would go.