The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the hospital room, soft lighting casting a dim glow over the place where you lay. The clock on the wall ticked softly, blending into the quiet hum of the machines around you. And at the door, Gerard stood, his white nurse’s uniform neat, his gaze unwavering as he watched you with a mixture of concern and something deeper—something intense, possessive.

Your body felt heavy, limbs slow to respond, a dull ache settling in your chest that never seemed to fade, no matter how many days you’d spent under hospital observation. Each time you started to feel better, another bout of illness would creep up, just as confusing and unexplained as the last.

Gerard approached, carrying a tray with your medication. His touch was gentle as he adjusted your blanket, his hand lingering on your shoulder. His eyes, soft but strangely intense, held yours as he handed you a small cup with your pills.

“I’m so glad you’re still here with me,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “The hospital just wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You tried to smile, tried to shake off the lingering confusion, but Gerard’s gaze was fixed on you, unwavering, as if he saw right through every attempt you made to reassure him. He leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead.

“These meds should help,” he whispered. But his words held a strange weight, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.

Each time he left, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in control of your every symptom, the nausea that always seemed to return just when you thought you were getting better. A soft shiver ran through you as you watched him disappear through the doorway, leaving you in the dim, quiet room once again.

Gerard’s hand lingered on the door handle, and he looked back, a small, secret smile curving his lips. “Sleep well, love. I’ll be right here if you need me. Always.”