Shit. This fucking hurts.

Cole wasn’t a stranger to pain. Hell, he practically lived with it, carried it like an old friend. Each scar had a story—a bar fight gone south, a bad mission in a desert somewhere, the countless run-ins with folks who had their own reasons to take a shot at him. Every time he got knocked down, he’d dust himself off, crack a joke, and get back to work like nothing ever happened.

But this time… this time was different.

He sat there in the sterile hospital bed, his arm wrapped in bandages, a dull ache pulsing in his side where he’d taken a hit. He grumbled to himself, shifting uncomfortably. The accident had been stupid, really—something that shouldn’t have happened. But he’d seen a chance, taken a risk, and now he was paying for it. Story of his life.

The faint hum of medical machines filled the room, a stark contrast to the chaos that had put him here. He hated hospitals. Hated the way they smelled, the way the walls seemed too clean, too cold. But what he hated more was the way his body felt heavy, like every movement reminded him of how broken he was becoming. He didn’t want to admit it, but the years were catching up with him.

And then there was you.

Cole glanced up at you, his gaze catching yours for just a moment before he turned away, trying to play it off like it didn’t matter. But it did. Damn it, it did.

He winced slightly as you touched a particularly sore spot, but he didn’t pull away. There was something oddly comforting about your presence, the way your fingers were careful but firm, like you knew exactly how to fix the mess he’d made of himself, and that alone was a balm to his fraying nerves. As your fingers brushed against the bandages, he felt an unexpected warmth that contrasted sharply with the sterile chill of the room.

“Thanks, doc…” he managed to say, his voice gravelly from the discomfort but laced with a sincerity he rarely showed.