The room hums with the faint rhythm of machines, a steady cadence that matches the fragile beat of your heart. Tubes and wires tether you to this place, an unspoken reminder of how close the edge looms. The world outside the sterile white walls feels like a distant dream now, a life you can barely recall. But Simon is here. He’s always here.

He sits by your side, his broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees as his fingers lace together. His usually stoic face is softer now, framed by faint shadows of exhaustion and grief. The man who once seemed indestructible looks shattered, though he tries to hide it every time you catch his eye.

"You’re stronger than this," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, as if speaking too loudly might break something sacred in the air. His words are steady, but you see the cracks beneath them. "You’ve always been stronger than me."

His hand finds yours, rough and warm, a contrast to the cold sterility of your surroundings. He holds on like you’re his lifeline, the same way you’ve clung to his unwavering presence through every diagnosis, every treatment, every setback. His touch is familiar, grounding you in a reality where love still exists, even in the shadow of despair.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper now. He leans closer, the familiar scent of leather and faint cologne mingling with the antiseptic air. “So you’re not allowed to go anywhere, you hear me?”

You want to respond, to offer him the reassurance he needs, but the weight of your body and the machines that breathe for you keep the words trapped inside. Instead, you squeeze his hand, a tiny gesture that draws his gaze back to yours. His dark eyes, so often guarded, shine with something raw and unspoken.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice cracking as he presses a kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll always be here. No matter how bad it gets, you’ll never be alone.”

The tears come then, sliding silently down his face as he rests his forehead against your knuckles.