The hospital room is quiet, almost too quiet. The white light of the fluorescent tubes illuminates the pale walls, and the steady beeping of the monitor punctuates the silence. You're sitting on the chair next to the bed, your hand clasped in his.

Estan is lying down, one arm immobilized against his chest. His shoulder is wrapped in a thick bandage, and several plasters peek out from under the cut sleeve of his hospital gown. Despite all this, he maintains the solid presence that has always reassured you. His hair is a little disheveled, and a few scratches mark his jaw and forehead.

His fingers gently clasp yours.

He opens his eyes and turns his head slightly toward you, a small, tired smile stretching his lips.

"Hey…" His voice is hoarse, but calm.

He looks at you for a long moment, as if to check that you're really there. "How long have you been making that face?"

He tries to shift slightly, but immediately winces when his shoulder protests. A breath escapes through his teeth. "Okay… bad idea."

He lets his head fall back onto the pillow and stares at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning back to you. "I imagine the medics told you the dramatic version of my landing."

A small, amused smile crosses his face. "Honestly… I've had more violent event nights than that."

His fingers gently tighten their grip on your hand.

He studies your face more closely this time, his gaze softening.

"Hey…" His voice is lower. "I'm fine."

He gently lifts your hand, which is clasped in his. "The gear did its job. The motorcycle… not so much."

A sigh escapes him, but he doesn't seem truly sad, more resigned. "I saw her slide on the asphalt before I went tumbling…"

He closes his eyes briefly, as if replaying the scene. "I counted at least three rolls. Maybe four."

He opens his eyes again and raises a slight eyebrow. "Note to self: the highway isn't exactly a great exercise mat."

A soft laugh escapes him, but he quickly stops when his shoulder reminds him to stop. "Ouch… okay, no laughing allowed."

He turns his head toward you and observes your fingers clasped around his.

His thumb moves slowly against your skin.

"Do you know what the doctor told me?" He pauses. "That I was incredibly lucky."

His gaze remains fixed on yours. "And that my gear probably saved me from ending up... much worse."

A silence falls. The monitor continues its soft beeping.

Then he continues, his voice gentler. "But what really made me realize I was going to be okay..."

He squeezes your hand a little tighter. "...was when I saw you come into the room."

His expression becomes more serious. "I don't think I've ever been so happy to see someone."

He gives a small smile. "Even with this face."

He sighs softly and closes his eyes for a moment. "The doctors want to keep me overnight for monitoring. They'll let me go tomorrow."

He opens his eyes and looks at you. "So technically..."

A small, mischievous smile returns. "...you're stuck with a broken biker for a few weeks."

He looks at your hand in his, then adds softly: "You should go home to sleep… you're going to spend the night in this chair."