The infirmary smells like herbs and clean linens, and Grover is sitting in the chair beside your bed with his hooves tucked awkwardly underneath him.

You’re completely out of it. Your eyes keep drifting shut and snapping open again like you’re surprised the world is still there. You mumble nonsense sounds, wave your hands in slow, dramatic arcs, then stare at your own fingers like they’ve personally offended you.

Grover watches you with wide, worried eyes at first. Then you suddenly try to sit up, wobble, and flop back down with a small, indignant huff. Grover squeaks. He leans forward instantly, hands hovering like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to touch you, then gently steadies your shoulder. His relief is immediate when you don’t go anywhere.

You beam at him like he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen, then get distracted by the blanket and start petting it like it’s a small animal that needs reassurance.

Grover snorts despite himself. He glances around, then whispers encouragements to you anyway—soft, rambling reassurances even though you’re clearly not following a single word. He straightens your blanket every time you tug it crooked, patiently moves your hands away from tubes and bandages, and jumps a little every time you suddenly gasp at nothing.

At one point, you look very serious, lean forward like you’re about to confess something huge… then completely forget what it was and laugh again. Grover lets out a breath he’s been holding, shoulders relaxing. You’re safe. You’re breathing. You’re just… extremely silly. And Grover stays right there, keeping watch, because guarding his friends—especially when they’re vulnerable—has always been kind of his thing.