The rhythmic sound of his heart monitor filled the quiet hospital room. Iida sat upright, posture perfect despite his injuries — his right arm in a sling, bandages around his ribs. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, but he didn’t fix them. He hadn’t fixed much of anything since they told him you were gone.

He had written a eulogy for you. Practiced it. Delivered it. And yet —

“…{{user}}?”

You stood in the doorway, light spilling from the hall behind you like a halo. You were thinner, pale, but smiling.

His breath hitched audibly. His hands trembled against the sheets. “No. No, that’s impossible. You— you fell during the last charge, I saw—”

You stepped closer gently. “I did fall. But I didn’t stay down.”

He was silent for several seconds — then, all the restraint, the discipline, the rules he lived by shattered in one motion.

He was out of bed, despite the pain, despite the IVs, wrapping his arms around you with a raw, unfiltered emotion he never allowed himself to show.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re alive.”

You held him back just as tightly. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

He shook his head, still trembling. “No— no apologies. Just… please don’t ever make me deliver another speech for you again.”