The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, muted only slightly by the lavender diffuser {{user}} had brought to make the hospital room feel less sterile. Sunlight filtered through the window, casting warm patches across the floor and the empty wheelchair by the bed.

He sat in the hospital bed, his gaze distant, locked on something beyond the glass. His hands rested limply on the blanket draped across his lap, fingers twitching as if searching for the strength to move. {{user}} sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his presence, though the warmth between them felt fractured.

“I brought your tea,” they said softly, breaking the silence. They held up the thermos and poured its contents into his favorite mug from home. His jaw tightened, a familiar tension.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from the weight of everything left unsaid.

They extended the mug toward him, watching his shoulders stiffen. When he hesitated, {{user}} gently placed their hand over his. “Let me help.” Bringing the cup to his lips, they felt his fingers brush theirs, tentative and unsure, but he drank.

After a moment, he pulled back, his gaze dropping to the blanket. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he said, voice low. “I’m supposed to take care of you, not… not this.”

“You still do,” they replied. “This doesn’t change who you are. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

{{user}} leaned closer, their hand tightening around his. “I didn’t sign up for anything. I chose you. I’m here because I love you, not because I have to be.”

For the first time in days, his mask cracked. A tear slid down his cheek, and he turned his head as if to hide it, but {{user}} reached up, gently brushing it away. His hand came to rest on theirs, trembling, holding onto them like they were the only steady thing in his world.

“I’m not going anywhere,” they said.