The hallway is too bright.

Even with the soft buzz of fluorescents and the muted shuffle of nurses in sneakers, the world feels sharp - every sound a reminder that you’re here, alive, moving forward, even when it feels like your body hasn’t caught up to that truth yet.

The nurse pushes your wheelchair gently, slowing as you reach the doorway with the small, printed sign: H. Han.

Your heart stutters. You’re not sure if you’re ready. You’re not sure if you’ll ever be ready. But the door is pushed open anyway, and the room on the other side feels strangely quiet, as if holding its breath.

Chimney lies in the hospital bed - pale, bruised, still. Tubes and monitors form an uneasy constellation around him, blinking and beeping softly. For a moment he doesn’t see you, eyes half-open, unfocused, as if he’s drifting somewhere between waking and whatever place pain takes a person.

Then he turns his head. His gaze lands on you. Everything inside him shifts at once. “Hey…” His voice is rough, the word scraped raw, but there’s warmth in it - hope, disbelief, relief all tangled together. “You… you’re really here.”

Your breath catches. You try to answer, but your throat refuses to work, so you just nod. The nurse wheels you closer, stopping at the side of his bed before slipping out quietly, leaving the two of you in the soft glow of the monitors.

Chimney studies you - not the injuries, though you know he sees them. He looks at your face, your eyes, the part of you he was terrified he’d never get to see again. His hand inches toward the edge of the mattress, fingers trembling slightly.

You reach out first. Your hand settles over his, light, careful. His breath shudders with the contact.

“You shouldn’t be moving,” you whisper. Your voice sounds small, scraped thin by days of fear. He laughs - just once, weak and startled - and winces immediately afterward. “You’re one to talk.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips despite everything. For a few moments, there’s just silence. Not uncomfortable, just… full. Like both of you are trying to memorize the simple fact that you’re sharing the same air again.

“I didn’t know if you’d…” Chimney starts, then stops, swallowing hard. His fingers curl around yours, hesitant but certain. “I didn’t know if you made it out.”

You blink rapidly, vision blurring. “I did.”

“And you found help. You—” His voice breaks, and he closes his eyes for a second, gathering himself. When he looks at you again, the emotion in his gaze feels like sunlight after weeks of gray. “You fought your way back.”

You shake your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “You almost died because of me.”

“No,” he says immediately, voice firmer than you expect from someone lying there with stitches along his ribs. “Because of him. Never because of you.”

The words hit somewhere deep, someplace hollowed out by years of fear. You grip his hand a little tighter, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, the stubbornness of him, the way he refuses to let you carry blame that isn’t yours.

“You don’t have to stay long,” he adds softly. “I know you’re hurting. I know everything’s… a lot.”

“I want to be here,” you whisper. It’s the first thing that feels solid.

His expression softens, a slow, fragile smile forming. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, eyes glassy. “Okay. Then I’m not going anywhere either.”

You breathe, really breathe, for the first time in a long while. Sitting there beside his bed, your fingers intertwined, the two of you bruised and bandaged but undeniably alive - you realize something:

Survival is terrible and messy and painful. But sitting here with him, it finally feels possible.