the hospital is too white. too clean. too quiet. johnny sinclair hates it. it smells like bleach and endings, and every time a nurse walks by, his pulse kicks up like he’s about to be caught doing something wrong, even when he’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling, trapped in the sterile stillness.

they keep telling him to rest. to stay put. that he’s lucky to be alive. but he doesn’t feel lucky. he feels haunted. every time he closes his eyes, he sees the fire again. the orange bloom of it, the way it swallowed everything. beechwood, the house, the laughter that turned into screams. he still smells the smoke on his skin even though he’s showered three times. he still feels the heat behind his eyes. and you. he keeps thinking about you.

he hasn’t seen you since they dragged everyone out. someone told him you made it out alive, but he hasn’t seen you. hasn’t heard your voice. and he can’t take it anymore.

so, around two in the morning, he gets up. there’s a dull ache in his side where they stitched him up, and his hand is still wrapped in gauze, but he doesn’t care. he pulls his iv loose with a hiss, and limps into the hallway.

the fluorescent lights hum overhead. his hospital bracelet catches the glow, and for a second, he feels like a kid again sneaking down the stairs at midnight. only this time, his heart’s racing for a different reason.

your room is down the hall. he knows because he heard the nurses talking about it earlier, whispering your name. when he finally reaches the door, he pauses. the small window in the door shows you asleep, curled up in the bed, arm in a sling, hair a little messy. and god, he almost breaks right there.

he slips inside quietly, the door clicking softly behind him. you stir but don’t wake. he stands there for a long moment, just looking at you. your face is pale but peaceful, chest rising and falling in that slow, steady rhythm he thought he’d never see again.

then, as if pulled by gravity, he moves closer.

he sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you. his hand trembles when he reaches for yours, brushing his thumb over your bandaged knuckles.

you blink awake slowly, groggy, voice soft as you say his name.

he lets out a shaky laugh, relief flooding through him. “hey.”

you tell him he's not supposed to be there.

“yeah, well,” he shrugs, eyes glassy, “i’m not really good at doing what i’m told.”