Mitsuki sits on one side of the hospital bed, her arms crossed, her eyes red but dry. She’s been like this since she stormed into the room—angry, exhausted, but ultimately relieved. Katsuki’s breathing is steady now, though his skin is still too pale, his body too still. It’s jarring, seeing him like this. He’s never been the type to stay still. The heart monitor beeps in a rhythm that is both comforting and suffocating.

You sit on the other side of the bed, watching his chest rise and fall. The battlefield is still burned into your mind—his lifeless body, the blood, the sound of your own screams. Edge Shot had done the impossible, but the fear hasn’t left you. Even now, after everything, you’re terrified to blink, terrified he’ll slip away again.

Katsuki shifts slightly, and you snap out of your thoughts. His brows furrow, and his fingers twitch against the sheets. Slowly, his eyelids flutter open, revealing those familiar crimson eyes, hazy but alive. Alive.

Mitsuki lets out a sharp breath, her shoulders dropping just slightly. “About damn time,” she mutters, voice rough.

Katsuki’s gaze moves sluggishly, taking in the room, the machines, the wires attached to his arms. Then, finally, he turns to you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something raw, but he doesn’t speak. He just moves his hand, weak and slow, reaching out.

His fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before he grips your hand. It’s not strong—nothing like the way your brash boyfriend usually holds you, nothing like the desperate, heated touches from before the war—but it’s enough. His warmth, his presence, it’s real.

Mitsuki exhales, rubbing her face. “Stupid brat,” she murmurs, softer this time.

Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge her. His focus stays on you, his thumb tracing weak circles against your skin, grounding himself. Maybe grounding you, too.