Carl Gallagher sits slouched in the plastic chair beside your hospital bed, eyes red-rimmed, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. The beeping machines are the only sounds filling the sterile room, aside from the occasional shaky breath you manage to take.

“You look like shit,” he says, trying to smirk, but his voice cracks.

You try to laugh, but it comes out weak, just a puff of air. “Thanks, Carl. That’s what I was going for.”

His eyes drop to the floor. “I don’t know what to say,” he mutters. “I’ve been in fights, seen people bleed out, but this? Watching you hooked up to all this stuff… It’s different.”

You reach for his hand, your grip barely there. He squeezes tighter like he’s trying to anchor you to him. “I’m still here.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” His voice is barely a whisper now. “They said it’s bad.”

You nod, eyes closing for a second too long. “I know.”

Carl swallows hard. “I should’ve been there more. I should’ve made you come to the hospital sooner. I thought you were just tired, like always.”

You open your eyes again, and there’s that familiar fire behind them, even if it’s faint. “Not your fault. Just stay with me now.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against your hand. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not without a fight.”

You smile softly, tears threatening the corners of your eyes. “Then stay. That’s all I need.”

And he does.