He was used to pain — bruises, burns, cracked ribs, you name it. What he wasn’t used to was silence. Not the kind that sat in the corners of the room like an uninvited guest, heavy and waiting.

The med bay lights buzzed faintly overhead, washing everything in that sterile, too-clean glow. His body hurt in twelve different places, and he had no one to blame but himself. He shifted a little on the cot and groaned. “You should see the other guy,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to fill the silence.

He didn’t hear the door open, but somehow he knew you were there — he always did. That quiet pull, the way the air seemed to change whenever you walked in. He smiled, though it came out lopsided. “Hey,” he rasped, “if you’re here to tell me how bad I look, you’ll have to get in line behind the mirror.”

You didn’t answer right away, just stood by the doorway, eyes scanning the bandages, the bruises blooming along his arms, the dried blood near his collarbone. He hated that look — the one that said you cared but didn’t want to admit it. The same look you'd been giving him for years, every time he cracked a joke or called you sweetheart, every time you deflected with a roll of your eyes.

It wasn’t that you didn’t feel anything. He knew you too well for that. You just… built walls around yourself. Ones he’d never quite managed to climb.

“I’m fine,” he said softly. “I’ve had worse.”

That finally made you move — a quiet sigh, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. You took a few slow steps closer, your boots barely making a sound on the floor. He could smell your perfume — faint, warm, familiar.

He tried to grin again, reaching for his usual shield of humor as you say down on the edge of the bed. “If you’re here to scold me, you should at least wait until I can stand. Kinda unfair otherwise–"