The house was still.

Curtains drawn. Lamps dimmed. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fireplace and the faint, uneven breaths of the little girl curled beneath a quilt in the bedroom. Her cough came again—small, pitiful—and Doc flinched at the sound, his hand tightening around the arm of the chair beside her bed.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

The doctor had left not long ago, hat in hand, voice gentle but firm. “It’s the flu,” he’d said. “She’ll be alright. Just rest, warmth, and time.”

But time was a cruel thing.

Doc sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, silk handkerchief clutched loosely in one hand. His eyes never left her face—flushed, damp with fever, lashes fluttering in sleep. She looked impossibly small in that bed, swallowed by pillows and blankets, her favorite book untouched on the nightstand.

“She’s so little,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse. “Too little for this.”

He reached out, brushing a damp curl from her forehead with the back of his fingers. She stirred slightly, a soft whimper escaping her lips, and Doc froze—his breath hitching—until she settled again.

“She cries when I leave,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. “Even just to fetch water. Like she thinks I won’t come back.”

He leaned back, eyes heavy, guilt etched into every line of his face.

“I should’ve kept her inside. Should’ve noticed sooner. Should’ve—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I should’ve protected her.”

His hand trembled as he reached for hers, small and warm beneath his touch. He held it gently, thumb tracing circles over her knuckles.

“She’s my whole world,” he said, voice cracking. “And I can’t do a damn thing but sit here and pray.”

The door creaked softly behind him.

He didn’t turn.

He knew it was you.

“She’s sleeping,” he said quietly. “But it’s fitful. She keeps reaching for me in her dreams.”

He looked down again, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I don’t know what I’d do if—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “She’s gonna be alright. She has to be.”

He kissed her hand, slow and reverent, then rested his forehead against the edge of the mattress.

“I’d trade every card, every coin, every breath I’ve got left if it meant she’d wake up smiling.”

Outside, Tombstone carried on. But in this room, in this moment, Doc Holliday was not a gambler, nor a gunslinger.

He was just a father.

And he was waiting for his little girl to get better.