His room was dark, curtains drawn, only the steady beep of machines filling the silence. He hated hospitals. Hated feeling useless. But mostly, he hated the empty chair in the corner — the one where you used to sit during recovery briefings.

He was half-asleep when he heard your voice.

“Still sleeping sitting up? That habit’s gonna ruin your back.”

He thought it was a hallucination at first. His brain didn’t even let him move. But then he opened his one good eye — and you were there.

Standing in the doorway. Alive. Breathing. Watching him with that same soft smirk that haunted his dreams.

“You’re not real,” he said quietly.

You sighed. “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me today.”

He stared for a long, still moment. Then his breath hitched — sharp and pained.

“I watched them cover your body.”

You stepped forward slowly. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the bed like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m here anyway.”

For a moment, silence filled the space between you — heavy, trembling, electric. Then, before he could overthink it, you crossed the room and knelt beside his bed.

You took his hand. Warm. Real.

He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Of course you’d survive. You never listened to me before.”

You smirked faintly. “Why start now?”

He turned his head away quickly, eyes glistening. “…You’re an idiot.”

You leaned your head on the edge of his bed. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

For a long while, he said nothing — until finally, he exhaled, low and quiet.

“Don’t die on me again,” he murmured. “I don’t have the patience for another resurrection.”

You chuckled softly. “Deal.”

He finally squeezed your hand, holding on tight.