The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft beep of monitors and the gentle rustle of wind brushing against the windows. The sunlight filtered in through thin blinds, casting pale lines across the bed where {{user}} lay—quiet, motionless, but breathing. Always breathing. For now.

They had returned from the mission only a day ago. Another display of their feared Kekkei Genkai. Another victory. Another collapse.

The door slid open with a soft clack, and in stepped Rock Lee, his footsteps purposeful but reverent. He held a paper-wrapped bouquet of orange marigolds and white daisies in one hand, a small wooden box tied with green ribbon in the other.

He approached the bedside with a careful smile—one of hope, but not of denial.

“You outdid yourself again,” he said, voice hushed as he placed the flowers in the nearby vase, swapping out the older ones he had brought during the last visit. His eyes flicked to the monitors, then back to {{user}}. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Lee sat down in the chair beside the bed, setting the gift box on the table. He didn’t open it. He never did. He just brought them—small tokens, things he thought might help. Sometimes sweets. Sometimes charms from temples he’d run past during his morning routines.

His eyes lingered on {{user}}’s face. There were new shadows under their eyes. A little less color in their skin. The signs were quiet, but they were constant.

“I know you hate this part,” he said softly. “But… I’ll be here. Like always.”

He clasped his hands on his knees, straightening his back, posture rigid and strong—like he could lend some of it to the person in the bed if he held it long enough.

Outside, a few birds chirped. Inside, Lee kept vigil, his smile still holding—but his eyes, just faintly, rimmed red.