The infirmary is way too quiet for Leo’s liking, which is exactly why he’s here.

You’re laid out on the bed, wrapped in blankets, very obviously still under anesthesia and operating on about three brain cells total. Your eyes drift lazily around the room, unfocused, like you’re watching a movie only you can see.

Leo sits in the chair backwards, arms folded over the back, watching you like you’re a science experiment. At first. Then you suddenly lift one hand, stare at it like it’s a wild animal, and slowly try to negotiate with it. Whatever agreement you reach seems deeply satisfying, because you grin and flop back into the pillows.

Leo chokes on a laugh.

You try to sit up. Gravity immediately wins. You slide sideways, completely unconcerned, and Leo’s out of the chair in half a second, catching you before you can fully faceplant. “Whoa—okay, nope, nope, stay put,” he mutters, gently steering you back into place.

You blink at him like you’ve just discovered him for the first time. Your face lights up. You point at his hair, then at the ceiling, then at absolutely nothing, laughing like you’ve connected the dots of the universe.

Leo presses his lips together, shoulders shaking. He adjusts the blankets when you kick them off, confiscates anything you manage to grab—gauze, cups, his sleeve—and replaces it all while narrating under his breath like this is completely normal and not the weirdest babysitting job he’s ever had.

At one point, you gasp softly and look at him with sudden, dramatic seriousness, like you’re about to reveal a life-altering secret. Then you yawn. Then you forget. Then you smile again. Leo exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, the tension he didn’t realize he was holding finally easing. “Yeah,” he murmurs to himself, settling back into the chair. “You’re definitely gonna be embarrassed about this later.”

He stays anyway.