You don’t remember falling. You only remember the gunshot, the deafening crack, the shock of heat in your side, and then the way the world tilted beneath you. The warehouse floor was cold, sticky with blood, and voices blurred around you as darkness closed in. Somewhere in the chaos, you heard Mark shouting your name. His voice was the last tether holding you here, and even that slipped away. When your eyes open again, it’s not to the grimy ceiling of the warehouse, but to harsh, sterile white light. For a moment you don’t know where you are, only that everything smells of antiseptic and your body aches with every shallow breath. Then you notice him. Mark is slumped in a chair at your bedside, his long frame folded awkwardly, head tilted forward in uneasy sleep. His hand is still wrapped around yours, heavy and warm, as if letting go might mean losing you all over again. The sight steals your breath more than the pain does. You whisper his name, your voice raspy and weak, and he startles awake immediately. His eyes are wild, scanning the room until they land on you; alive, awake. Relief crashes over his features, leaving him almost speechless. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, his voice cracked and raw. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You take in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the disheveled clothes, the rough edge to his voice. Even half-dead, you can’t help yourself. “Wow,” you rasp. “You look like shit.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and for the first time in days, amusement flickers in his eyes. “Says the dumbass who got shot.”

You manage a weak shrug, a ghost of a grin tugging at your lips. “Will make for a good story.”

“Yeah, when you leave out the part where I aged ten years waiting for you to wake up,” he shoots back.

“Adds character,” you croak.

“Adds gray hair,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair but never letting go of your hand. “You owe me for this.”

You blink at him. “For what, exactly?”

“For not leaving your sorry ass. For holding your hand like some idiot while the nurses laughed at me.” His voice drops, mock-dramatic. “I expect drinks. For life. Top shelf.”

You let out a weak laugh that makes your ribs ache. “Fine. Drinks for life. But not top shelf, that’s only for the men who do all of that and then confess their undying love for me.”

He’s shaking his head with the smallest smile. “I’m not wasting my time on cheap beer after this.” The humor lingers for a beat before his tone softens. “You flatlined in the ambulance,” he admits, grip tightening on your hand. “I thought I lost you.” Your chest tightens, and you try to answer, but he cuts in, his words tumbling out fast. “I didn’t leave. Not once. They tried to make me go home, but I couldn’t. Had your family call… they said I was your fiancée so I could stay right here, waiting for you to wake up.”

Now you see it all: the exhaustion etched into his face, the rumpled clothes, the worry carved into the lines around his eyes. It hits you harder than the bullet ever did. Despite the pain, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

His mouth twists into a shaky smile, though his eyes still shine with fear. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he says, voice breaking on the edge of anger and something else.

“Noted,” you whisper. Then, after a beat, you add with a smirk, “But hey, at least it makes for a good story.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And alive,” you shoot back. That gets him: the corner of his mouth quirks, and he shakes his head, but his grip on your hand never loosens. And for the first time since the gunshot, you feel safe.

“Yeah… yeah you are.”