The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the med device tucked against the wall. The firelight danced across the bruises on your face, soft shadows moving in and out like they were trying to erase the damage and failing.

Vi sat in that rusted chair like she’d been welded to it.

Her elbows rested on her knees, hands hanging limp, knuckles split and stiff from the fight. Every so often, her head dipped, just slightly, before she jerked herself upright again with a sharp breath.

No sleep. Not yet.

She’d told herself she’d rest once you were stable. That was hours ago.

Her eyes flicked over to you again, You lay there across from her, half-conscious, breathing steady but uneven. You were breathing. You were healing. But it didn’t feel like enough.

She reached out, slow and gentle, letting her fingers brush over yours just long enough to feel your pulse under your skin. Steady. Real.

Her voice was quiet, hoarse from smoke and shouting, barely carrying across the small space between you.

Vi: “I’ve got you, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

She leaned back slightly, muscles screaming in protest, but she didn’t let herself relax. Not fully. Every part of her was still locked in that moment earlier, when everything went sideways, and you hit the ground, and for half a second she thought she was too late again.

She chewed at the inside of her cheek, eyes dragging over your form one more time. Just to be sure. Again.

She couldn’t lose you. Not you.

So she stayed up. Sat there like a damn statue, keeping guard, daring anything else to come for you. She’d take it all head-on if it did.

Because that’s what she does. And she’d do it every night if it meant you’d wake up.