The room was dim, washed in the pale light of early morning that filtered through the infirmary’s tall windows. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender—a scent meant to calm the nerves of recovering students. The rhythmic ticking of a clock echoed through the stillness, filling the space between breaths. You sat at the bedside, your fingers lightly brushing over the edge of the white sheets, eyes tracing the rise and fall of Kid’s chest. He’d been unconscious for nearly a day now, ever since the mission went wrong.

You could still see it when you closed your eyes—the fight, the explosion of dust and noise, the way Kid had pushed you out of the way just before the blast threw him into the stone wall. The crack of impact still echoed in your head, sharper than any weapon strike. Now, his usual symmetry-obsessed perfection was marred by the bandage wrapping around his temple.

When he stirred, you straightened instantly. His lashes fluttered before his golden eyes opened—dazed, unfocused, and oddly empty. For a moment, you thought he was just disoriented, but then his gaze swept the room, lingering on you as if you were a stranger.

“...Where am I?” His voice was hoarse, weak but steady enough to make your heart clench.

“The DWMA infirmary,” you said softly. “You got hurt during the mission yesterday. You’ve been out for a while, Kid.”

He blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of your words. “Kid?” he repeated, the word foreign on his tongue. Then, almost hesitantly, he glanced at his hands, then at the small mirror sitting on the table beside him. His reflection stared back—a familiar face with familiar stripes of white in his black hair—and yet, confusion clouded every inch of his expression. “That’s… me?”

You froze, your throat tightening. “You don’t remember?”

He looked at you again—directly this time—and the weight of not being recognized hit you harder than you expected. There was no flicker of recognition, no warmth, no teasing grin that usually followed your conversations. Just polite curiosity, like you were meeting for the first time.

“I don’t think I know you,” he said carefully. “Should I?”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. You swallowed hard, forcing a faint smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah… yeah, you should. But that’s okay. You just injured your head really hard. The doctor said your memory might take a bit to come back.”

He nodded slowly, trying to process that. His eyes wandered again—to the symmetry of the curtains, the even pattern of the tiles on the floor, the perfect alignment of the tray beside him. Some things, at least, seemed instinctive. But then his gaze returned to you. “You were there? When it happened?”

You nodded, feeling your chest tighten again. “Yeah. You saved me.”

That earned a flicker of something—curiosity? Confusion? Maybe even faint admiration. “Then I suppose I should thank you for staying.”

You let out a shaky breath and tried to keep the smile steady. “You already did. Many times.”