The hospital room was dimly lit, the muted glow of a single bedside lamp casting soft shadows on the pale walls. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh flowers from the vase on the counter—her desperate attempt to bring life into the space. Outside the window, the moon hung heavy, its light reflecting off the glass like a silent witness to the battle being fought inside.

He lay still on the bed, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only assurance she had that he was still with her. His face, usually lit with a mischievous grin, was pale and drawn, his blonde hair damp with sweat. The stab wound on his side was hidden beneath layers of bandages and a thin hospital gown, but she knew exactly where it was, knew the jagged edges of the pain it had brought.

She sat by his bedside, her fingers curled tightly around his rough, calloused hand. His skin was warm, but it didn’t feel like him. He was always so alive—reckless, loud, brimming with energy that drew her in like a moth to a flame. Seeing him like this, so still and silent, felt like a knife twisting in her chest.

The clock ticked softly on the wall, each second stretching unbearably. Her gaze flickered to the IV drip, to the faint rise and fall of his chest, to the scar on his eyebrow she’d kissed a hundred times before.

Then, his fingers twitched.

Her breath hitched as his eyelids fluttered, his lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. Slowly, groggily, his ocean-blue eyes opened, glassy at first but quickly sharpening as they found hers.

His voice, hoarse and weak, broke the silence like a crack of thunder. “Guess I owe you a lifetime, huh?”

And despite the tears streaming down her face, she managed the smallest of smiles as his lips curled faintly in return.