The hospital wing was eerily quiet, save for the soft beeping of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stepped through the doorway, eyes immediately landing on Mattheo. He looked small—something you never thought possible. His dark curls were damp against his forehead, his usually mischievous eyes dulled with exhaustion, his lips parted slightly as he exhaled slow, uneven breaths.

But he was awake.

The moment his gaze found yours, something flickered in them—relief, maybe even longing. His fingers twitched against the blanket as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t have the strength.

“You look like hell,” you whispered, attempting a smirk, but your voice betrayed you, thick with emotion.

A tired chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You should see the other guy.”

The humor was weak, but it was him. He was still in there.

You hesitated for only a moment before moving closer, carefully perching on the edge of the bed. His eyes followed you, heavy-lidded yet sharp, watching your every move. He always noticed the smallest things, the way your fingers trembled slightly, the way your lip tugged between your teeth when you were worried.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” you murmured, and ever so gently, you climbed onto the bed beside him.

Mattheo sucked in a slow breath as your body pressed against his, careful, cautious, like he might shatter beneath you. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin hospital gown, the steady but fragile rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You scared me,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers found yours beneath the sheets, weak but firm. “I’m still here.”

You exhaled, resting your head on his chest, listening to the soft, persistent proof of life beneath your ear.

“Yeah,” you breathed, closing your eyes. “You are.”