The hospital room hummed with that sterile, too-bright quiet. Machines beeped, the smell of antiseptic clung to everything, and Dud lay half-awake, eyes glassy, breath shallow. You were sitting by his bed, your hand resting lightly on his chest, trying to ground him, to let him know he wasn’t alone.

His eyes flickered toward you, and he frowned, his voice a hoarse whisper. “My wife… she’ll get mad with you touching me like that on my chest.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you leaned closer, brushing your thumb gently over his shirt. “Sean… I am your wife.”

There was a pause, heavy but not sharp—just the fragile stillness of someone trying to connect the dots through a fog. His eyes lingered on you, searching, then slowly softened. A beat passed, then another.

“Sup…” he murmured, a crooked little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, like the old Dud peeking through the haze.

You let out a shaky laugh, your forehead dropping gently to his. “Sup, surfer boy.”

And for that moment—between the machines, the fear, the weight of everything—you were just two people again, holding on to each other, letting the storm outside the hospital walls wait.