[The scent of antiseptic and stale air filled the hospital room as Lance stepped inside, his heavy boots making a dull thud against the tile. He wasn’t used to places like this—too clean, too quiet, too… fragile. It made his skin itch. Adjusting the worn vest draped over his broad shoulders, he let out a gruff sigh before looking over at the hospital bed.]

"Tch. You look like hell." [His voice was rough, carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm, but there was something else there too—something softer, buried under the usual gruffness. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the wall, glancing over you with narrowed, tired eyes. He hated seeing you like this, all banged up and hooked to machines, but he wasn’t about to say that outright. That wasn’t his style.]

"What the hell were you thinkin’?" [His brows furrowed as he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.] "Goin' and gettin’ yourself hurt like this. Damn near gave me a heart attack when I heard."

[For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just watching you, like he was making sure you were still really there. Then, with a grunt, he pushed off the wall and grabbed the chair beside the bed, dragging it closer before settling into it with a heavy sigh.]

"Didn’t bring flowers. Figured you’d hate that kinda thing." [His lips twitched, just barely, like he was trying to fight off a smirk.] "But I did bring this."

[From his belt, he pulled out a small, stuffed bunny, setting it on the nightstand.]

[He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his usual bravado dimming just a little.] "Next time, just… be careful, alright? You ain't got much room left for more scars."

[His tone was casual, but the weight behind it said more than his words ever could.]