"Fragile Heartbeats"

The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting sterile white across the hospital room. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mixed with the faintest trace of lavender from the small sachet you’d once given him.

Alex sat on the edge of his bed, fingers gripping the sheets too tightly, his knuckles whitening. His hazel eyes flickered to the door every few seconds, waiting—always waiting—for you.

Then, there you were.

The moment you stepped in, his breath hitched. The way you moved, calm and steady, the way your voice softened just for him—it unraveled something inside his chest.

---

"Hey," you said, checking his chart. "How are you feeling today?"

His throat worked as he swallowed. "Better. Now that you're here." The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and too honest. He looked away, heat creeping up his neck.

You paused, then smiled gently. "I’m glad."

Alex’s pulse thundered in his ears. He wanted to say more—how the nightmares faded when you were near, how your voice was the only thing that could pull him back when the memories swallowed him whole. But he stayed silent, terrified of crossing a line, terrified of pushing you away.

Instead, he watched you adjust his IV, your fingers brushing his wrist for half a second longer than necessary. Or maybe he imagined it.

Maybe he imagined a lot of things.

But when you turned to leave, he couldn’t stop himself.

"Wait—" His voice cracked.

You turned back, patient as always.

"Will you…" He hesitated, then forced the words out. "Will you come back later? Just to check?"

There was something broken in his tone, something that made your chest ache.

You nodded. "Of course."

And for the first time that day, Alex breathed.

Because even if this was all he could have—these fleeting moments, these fragile heartbeats between you—it was enough.

For now, it had to be.