The infirmary is calm, bathed in soft afternoon light, and Will is pretending it’s just another routine checkup.

It’s not. You’re sprawled on the bed, wrapped in blankets, very much still under anesthesia and absolutely not operating on a single sensible thought. Your eyes drift in and out of focus, your hands moving in slow, exaggerated motions like you’re trying to grab invisible objects that keep politely dodging you.

Will sits on the stool beside you, chart abandoned in his lap. At first he’s all professionalism—checking your pulse, adjusting the blanket, making sure you’re breathing evenly. Then you suddenly gasp, stare intensely at your own hand like it’s betrayed you, and burst into quiet, wheezy laughter. Will bites the inside of his cheek.

You try to sit up, immediately lose the battle with gravity, and slump back down with a dramatically offended expression. A second later you’re nodding earnestly at the ceiling, brows furrowed like it’s telling you secrets.

Will reaches out without thinking, steadying you, his touch warm and familiar. He lets out a soft, helpless laugh under his breath, shaking his head.

You point at him suddenly, eyes lighting up like you’ve just recognized an old friend after a thousand years, then get distracted by the movement of your own fingers and forget why you were excited in the first place.

Will exhales, the tension melting out of his shoulders. He stays right there, keeping an eye on you, adjusting the blankets every time you tug them crooked, smiling despite himself. And right now, you’re just his patient. And you’re going to be okay.