Camden hates the hospital. It’s too clean, too cold, too lonely. The air makes his lungs burn. His head pounds. But the only feeling he focuses on is your hand squeezing his as you sleep by his bedside.

He smiles. You’re the same stubborn mess he fell in love with. His hand slips from yours to pinch and prod at your face, thumbing the crease of your brow to soothe your frustrated expression.

You’ve been more irritated lately, and it hurts him more than it should. Where did it all go wrong? He’d never asked to be sent out into a battlefield with inexperienced hands.

The war had taken so much out of him. All that, only to be rewarded with a fuzzy brain and fresh scars.

He can’t wait to retire. Can’t wait to make you tea when your throat aches, can’t wait to watch your hair turn peppery gray, and hold while you watch the world falls apart. His eyes close with the thought, and his body feels lighter, somehow.

“Wake up,” His voice croaks. "Please.”