The room was dim, quiet, and heavy with worry.

Kurapika lay motionless on the bed, his skin pale, his breath shallow. For two days, you’d watched over him—through the fever spikes, the restless murmurs, the moments when his body trembled from sheer exhaustion. Leorio and Melody had taken turns with you, but you never truly left. You couldn’t.

Not after everything.

Not after the exchange.

He had held himself together for so long—through the tension of negotiation, the weight of vengeance, the constant strain of activating his scarlet eyes. You’d seen it in his posture, in the way he clenched his fists when no one was looking. He hadn’t rested. Not once.

And now his body had finally given out.

You sat beside him, elbows on your knees, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of his chest. The silence was unbearable. You wanted him to wake up. You wanted to scold him. You wanted to hear his voice again.

Then—

A rasp. Barely audible.

“What time is it?”

Your head snapped up. Your heart leapt.

“Kurapika?” you whispered, breath catching.

Leorio and Melody turned at once, rushing to the bedside with you. Kurapika’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused but unmistakably alive. His voice was weak, his body still fragile, but he was awake.

You reached for his hand, gripping it gently.

“You’re okay,” you said, voice trembling. “You’re finally okay.”

He blinked slowly, trying to process the room, the faces, the warmth of your touch. And for the first time in days, the weight in your chest began to lift.

He wasn’t fully healed. But he was here.

And that was enough.