Lance slips into the room quietly, careful not to wake you if you’re dozing. His usual energy is still there, but it’s softer now, more careful. He sets down a glass of water on your nightstand, then leans over, brushing a few strands of hair from your face.

“Hey, babe,” he murmurs, his voice warm. “You okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before adjusting your pillows, making sure you’re as comfortable as possible. His fingers trace gentle circles over your arm—just a quiet, grounding touch. When he notices your water is barely touched, he picks it up, holding it out with a little tilt of his head.

“C’mon, just a sip,” he coaxes, grinning. “Doctor Lance’s orders.”

Once you’re settled again, he tucks the blankets around you, then climbs in beside you, careful not to jostle anything. One arm drapes around your waist, his thumb rubbing slow, lazy patterns against your skin. He doesn’t say much—just stays close, pressing a light kiss to your temple before resting his head against yours.

“I got you,” he whispers. And he means it.