The hospital is too bright.

The fluorescent lights make everything feel unreal—like you’re stuck in a place where time is measured in beeps and sighs and the soft shuffle of shoes on linoleum.

You’re sitting in a plastic chair that’s too hard, holding your hands together so tightly they hurt. You don’t even remember how you got here.

Ian sits beside you, his coat draped over his shoulders like he’s trying to keep the world from touching him. He doesn’t look at the TV, doesn’t check his phone, doesn’t fidget.

He just stays.

That’s what scares you more than anything.

Because if he’s still here… then whatever happened must be serious.

A nurse passes, eyes flicking over you both, then moves on. The waiting room is quiet except for the distant sound of a crying child and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

Ian finally speaks.

“You okay?” he asks.

You want to say no. You want to say I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be here.

Instead, you whisper, “I don’t know.”

Ian nods, like that’s an acceptable answer.

He reaches out and takes your hand.

It’s not dramatic. No grand gesture. Just simple.

Just real.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he says. “You can be tired. You can be scared. You can be… human.”

You swallow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he adds quietly, like he’s promising you something he’s been learning to believe himself.

You look at him, and the hospital lights don’t feel as harsh anymore.

They feel… like they’re watching.

Like they’re waiting too.

You lean your head on his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re warm,” you murmur.

Ian’s breath catches.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’m right here.”

The minutes pass in silence.

Then, without warning, Ian whispers:

“Hey.”

You lift your head. His eyes are on you—steady, careful.

“You’re not alone,” he says. “Okay?”

You nod, because you believe him.

Because he’s not just saying it.

He’s showing it.

A door opens down the hall. Someone walks out, and you both turn, hearts suddenly in your throats.

A nurse steps toward you.

“Ian Gallagher?” she asks.

Ian stands, jaw tight, hand still holding yours.

You squeeze his fingers, like you’re anchoring yourself.

He looks back at you.

“Stay,” he says, not as a request.