The sterile air of the hospital room was filled with the soft beeping of monitors. Neon lights bathed the room in a cold white that hardly matched what Simon felt in that moment. He sat silently on the small chair beside your bed, broad shoulders slightly hunched, as if even his strong frame was beginning to bend under the weight of the past few weeks.

Simon looked at you—so small, so fragile—as you lay between white sheets, tubes attached to your arm, a bandage on your cheek from the last time you fought hard to get the needle out. An IV slowly dripped into your tiny body, and a feeding tube ran gently through your nose to keep you nourished. Your eyes were tired but alert. You clung to the stuffed animal he’d brought back for you from his last deployment. It was an soft, worn-out plush elephant, you loved it.

Simon slowly reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"Hey, little fighter." He murmured softly, more to himself than to you. You curled a little deeper under the blanket as the IV pump hissed quietly. Your lower lip trembled slightly.

He watched as your tiny fingers wrapped around his hand. Despite everything, you had strength—a raw, childlike strength he hadn’t seen even in the worst missions. The doctors had called it a rare autoimmune disease, your own body attacking itself. For weeks, you’d hovered close to death. Now things were a bit better. For the moment.

Simon smiled at you, that rare, genuine smile he kept only for you.

"I’m right here, okay? You don’t have to be scared of the silly machines, bug."

A faint mixture of hope and exhaustion flickered in his eyes as he held your hand, waiting—just maybe—for you to give him the smallest smile in return.