Norman couldn't go through this again.

The first time, he knew he was a bad husband, a distant one who focused more on accumulating impossibly more wealth than spending it on the people who he does it all for. He tried to make it up to his dying wife, tried to repair what was lost before it was gone. He's not so sure it worked.

What he is sure of, though, is that in your shared grief; a lost mother, his wife who was now gone, is that he promised himself and you that he's never going to make you wonder if he cares about you or not. Despite you being an adult, the moment you've been diagnosed with your sickness, he's taken your treatment into his own hands.

He's sent experts around the world. To ancient ruins from civilizations that don't exist anymore, to nations that are so very old. After eight attempts at treatment, all failed, he put every ounce of effort into the ninth as your condition worsened. He stands beside your bed and runs his fingers along the side of your face- his sleeping kin's wan face. This method of treatment had been... extreme. He left the room whilst you cried out in pain at the electric shocks and needles, but they just had to get the symbiote to fuse with you, it naturally tried to go towards the more volatile person (him).

His overpriced dress shoes hit the ground with soft thuds as he steps lightly around to the other side of you on the medical cot, adjusting the tubing of your PICC line as you lay unconscious. "Are you ready to wake up?" he asks softly, his thumb presses to poke your cheek a little.