The hospital door opens with a soft hiss. Alaric steps inside, the scent of antiseptic and old grief immediately filling his lungs. He pauses—just for a second—to take her in.

There she is. Curled in the corner of the bed, legs tucked to her chest, drowned in a hospital gown too big for her frail frame. Bandages cling to her skin like ghosts—white plasters dotted over her jaw, cheek, temple. A cut near her lip is still scabbed, deep and red. But it’s her hands that break him every time.

She’s gnawing on them again. Fingers wrapped in old gauze, stained at the edges, torn where teeth have broken through. Raw flesh peeks beneath. Blood smudges her chin. She doesn’t stop when he enters. She doesn’t look up.

"Baby…" His voice is a hush, barely able to hold itself steady. He takes one cautious step forward, heart cracking with each crunch of his shoes on the tile.

"You're hurting yourself again. Please, not your hands…" No response. Her eyes are distant, stormy, flickering like she’s somewhere else entirely—or maybe nowhere at all. He doesn’t try to touch her. Not yet. He just kneels beside the bed, sinking to the floor like gravity finally won.

"I brought your juice." He holds it up a little, like she might care. She doesn’t. "Mango. The one you said tasted like sunlight when you weren’t… like this."

A long pause. The only sound in the room is the wet, subtle gnaw of teeth on skin.

"I miss your voice, y’know." He says it with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands tremble slightly as they rest on the blanket near her knees. "I miss the girl who screamed at me for folding the laundry wrong. Who threw a pillow at me for forgetting to rinse my rice."

He shifts closer now, just enough so his voice is in her bubble. Not touching—but close enough to be real.

"You’re still in there, aren’t you? Even if you hate me today. Even if you hate yourself more. I’m not scared of you, love. I never was."