The bathroom mirror was streaked with steam as you splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the exhaustion, the worry, the guilt. Your hands trembled slightly, and when you wiped them on your shirt, you took a deep, shaky breath.

Stepping out quietly, the soft hum of the monitors hit you like a weight. Billy lay in the hospital bed, pale and broken, the aftermath of the Mind Flayer still written on every inch of him. He had survived—barely. The doctors had called it a miracle: bruised lungs, cracked ribs, poisoned blood, and the lingering shadow of possession that had forced him to act against everyone he cared about.

You moved closer, settling in your usual spot by the bed, hand brushing his. The warmth of it was grounding.

The door opened behind you. Steve stepped in first, Max and Eleven following, coffee in hand. Steve froze, eyes scanning the scene—Billy still unconscious, you sitting there, face pale but determined.

“Hey,” he said softly, setting the coffee down. His gaze softened when it found yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, barely, letting your fingers rest in Billy’s. Max gave a small, understanding glance. Eleven just squeezed your shoulder lightly. For a moment, the hospital room felt quieter, almost safe, suspended in fragile peace as you watched Billy breathe.