Juuzou was running.

Faster than he ever had in his life.

His coat flared behind him like wings, his boots pounding against the sterile hospital floor, breath sharp and uneven. The Doctor’s words echoed in his ears—“They woke up.”—and everything else blurred.

He didn’t wait for elevators.

Didn’t answer the nurse who called after him.

He just ran.

His heart was a storm—hope, fear, disbelief, longing—all crashing together in his chest. He hadn’t let himself imagine this moment. Not after the silence. Not after the stillness. Not after all the days he sat beside you, whispering nonsense just to fill the void.

And then—he reached the door.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t hesitate. He threw it open.

And froze.

You were sitting up. Awake. Smiling.

“Juuzou,” you said softly, voice still fragile but unmistakably yours.

He stared at you, eyes wide, lips parted, unable to speak. His body trembled, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor beside your bed like a puppet with cut strings.

Tears spilled instantly.

Not quiet ones.

Not dignified ones.

He cried like a child—raw, unfiltered, gasping between sobs as he clutched the edge of your blanket, forehead pressed to the mattress.

You reached out, brushing your fingers through his hair, and he shuddered at the touch.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because you were here.

And for Juuzou, that was everything.