The infirmary is unusually calm—until Grover.

He’s curled up on the bed with far too many blankets, horns barely peeking out, eyes glassy and unfocused. The anesthesia has him somewhere between awake and dreaming, and he keeps blinking like he’s surprised the room is still there every time.

You sit beside him, watching carefully. Grover’s hands fidget constantly. He pats the blankets, then his own chest, then reaches out like he’s trying to find something invisible in the air. When his fingers don’t find whatever he’s looking for, his face scrunches in deep concern… before he relaxes again and lets out a small, pleased sound. He shifts, hooves scraping softly, and nearly rolls right off the bed.

You catch him just in time, steadying his shoulder and guiding him back. He immediately leans into the touch, utterly trusting, eyes fluttering shut for a second before popping open again in sudden fascination with the ceiling.

Something about the light seems very important to him. Grover makes a quiet, startled noise when he notices his own horns, lifting a hand to carefully touch them like he’s checking they’re still real. He nods, satisfied, then starts fiddling with the edge of the blanket like it’s the most interesting fabric he’s ever encountered.

At one point, he looks at you with overwhelming relief—like just seeing you there solves a problem he can’t quite remember having. His shoulders loosen. His breathing evens out. He’s not panicking. He’s not afraid. Just loopy. Soft. Completely harmless.

You adjust the blankets when they slip, gently move his hands away from bandages, and stay right there while his thoughts drift in slow, drowsy circles.

For once, the protector is the one being watched over. And Grover—under all the confusion—seems to know he’s safe.