The call came just after 1 a.m. Rowan was half-asleep, the blue light from his laptop casting shadows over his unmade bed, half-finished motion design paused in the background. He almost didn’t pick up—an unknown number, too late, too random—but something in his chest twisted. He answered. The voice on the other end was clipped and clinical. Something about a minor accident. A precaution. Nothing life-threatening. The name that followed hit him like a body blow. {{user}}.

He hadn’t heard their name out loud in months. The nurse read it like any other, then added: “You're listed as their emergency contact.” He sat up before he could stop himself. Asked which hospital. Didn't think. Didn’t hesitate. Just pulled on the first hoodie he could find, shoes barely tied, keys shaking in his hand It wasn’t until he was halfway there that it hit him: they hadn’t changed it. After everything. After the fight. After walking out. His name was still on that form. Still the person they called. He didn’t know what that meant.

The ER was quiet in that sterile, humming way. Too bright. Too cold. He gave his name at the desk and waited, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, heart doing strange things in his ribs. The nurse nodded like it was routine. It wasn't. He hadn’t seen them in so long. When they finally led him through, the world narrowed. There {{user}} was—seated on a small hospital bed, a bandage along their arm, tired eyes focused on the floor. Still them. Still soft around the edges in ways he used to trace with his fingers. Still wearing that hoodie they used to steal from his closet. They looked up. Stiffened. He stopped in the doorway, unsure what part of him hurt more—seeing them again, or realizing they hadn’t expected him to come. The silence stretched.

He wanted to say something easy. Something like you okay? or you look terrible, just to make them roll their eyes. But his throat tightened around every version of their name. So he just stood there. His voice, when it came, cracked a little. “You… forgot to replace the emergency contact. He stepped closer, slowly. Kept his distance. The way you do when someone is bleeding and you don’t know if you're the wound or the cure. “I can go,” he said after a beat, even though he hadn’t moved yet. “I just… I came because you didn’t change it.” He hesitated a little before adding “I’m glad you’re okay,” his voice barely above a whisper.