The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with antiseptic and quiet beeping monitors. Angeal stood by the bed, his uniform neat despite restless nights. His broad shoulders were still, but the faint rustle of exhaustion lingered behind his expression.

When he saw you awake, a flash of relief softened his eyes. He stepped forward and though his posture remained stoic, his voice trembled with concern. "You are awake," he said, almost quietly.

He moved to your side, gaze unwavering. The lines beneath his eyes spoke of wear and worry, the cost of your absence pressing down on him. He knelt beside the bed, hand resting lightly on the covers, hesitant as if he feared you might vanish again.

"Where have you been?" The question carried weight, not accusation but something deeper, pressed into his heart during long nights spent searching.

He dipped his head, shoulders tightening. "I thought you were gone," he admitted, voice rough with sincerity. "I searched. I feared I would never see you again."

The silence that followed was thick, hovering between you like a promise. He remained there, kneeling, not letting go even when he did not touch. His concern echoed in the quiet of the room, steady and unspoken.