He sat at your bedside as the hospital clock ticked away in the dim light of the room. The silence felt heavier with every passing second, broken only by the soft hum of machines and the steady rhythm of your breathing.

He watched you closely—watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest—clinging to that small movement like a lifeline. It was the only thing keeping his fears at bay, the only proof that you were still here.

Your hand lay in his, frail and still, but warm. He hadn’t let go of it since he got there. Hours had passed—maybe more—but time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except you.

He didn’t speak. There was nothing he could say that would ease the ache in his chest. He didn’t know how much time you had left, and that uncertainty was worse than any answer.

He lowered his head slightly, resting his forehead against your hand, silently pleading for a miracle.

Then—movement. Your fingers twitched, your eyelids fluttered, and a weak breath escaped your lips.

You were waking up.

He straightened, eyes wide with relief, emotion choking his throat.

“{{user}}…” he whispered, voice cracking as he leaned in, hope blooming in his chest like light breaking through a storm.