The world was a haze of pain and medication when he first stirred, eyelids heavy, breath coming slow and shallow. His body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together—which, he supposed, wasn’t far from the truth. The last thing he remembered was fire in the sky, the deafening roar of an explosion, and the sickening weightlessness of freefall before everything cut to black.

Now, there was only the steady beeping of a heart monitor, the muted hum of machinery, and the sharp, sterile scent of a medical bay. The air was cool against his sweat-damp skin, but beneath the thin sheet covering him, every nerve still burned from the aftermath of battle. It took effort to move his head, but when he did, his gaze landed on a familiar figure seated nearby.

{{user}}.

They were waiting.

His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

Despite the exhaustion etched into their features, the tension in their shoulders, the undeniable worry shadowing their eyes, {{user}} was here. Not out on another mission, not wrapped up in the chaos that followed any major operation—here, by his side.

Something warm and unfamiliar settled in his chest, pressing against the bruised ribs and bandaged wounds. He tried to speak, but his throat was raw, his voice a hoarse rasp that barely carried. Even so, {{user}} reacted instantly, leaning in, eyes searching his face with barely restrained concern.

He wanted to smirk, to toss out some sharp remark about how bad he must look if it had them this rattled, but even the thought of it was exhausting. Instead, he let out a slow breath, forcing his muscles to relax against the pull of pain.

He was alive.

That was more than he could say for a lot of people after a direct missile strike.