Alex sits beside your hospital bed, stiff-backed and silent, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. His fingers twitch on his knee, as if fighting the urge to reach for you. The moment your eyes flutter open, he’s on his feet in an instant—sharp, alert, and suddenly breathless.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice hoarse, edged with disbelief and aching relief. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hand finds yours, gripping it with a desperate kind of gentleness, like if he lets go, the moment might vanish.

His usual wall of stoicism wavers. He sinks to his knees by your bedside, eyes locked on yours, and for a heartbeat, he's just a man unmoored by fear. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmurs, forehead pressing lightly to yours. It lingers—a silent plea, a grounding touch—before he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze again.

“You’re going to be okay. I promise.” His voice is steadier now, low and certain, as if sheer force of will could bend reality to his word.

With a tenderness that cracks your heart wide open, he strokes your hair, his touch reverent, careful. There’s a fire in his eyes now, a quiet intensity that says he’s already mapping out every inch of your recovery. Every appointment. Every hour of rest. Every obstacle cleared from your path.

He’s not just here for the moment—you know, with bone-deep certainty, he’s here for the long haul.