The hospital room was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs overhead casting a sickly glow over the pale green walls. The faint beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound filling the air, a slow and steady reminder that he was still breathing—still here, despite everything. Bandages wrapped around his arm and torso, gauze taped against his forehead where fresh bruises darkened his already tanned skin. His knuckles were raw, scabbed over from a fight that had been over before it even started. The room smelled like antiseptic and something else—something sterile and lifeless. He hated it.

Dallas Winston lay there, half-awake, half-pissed, and entirely miserable. His head lolled to the side, his sharp blue eyes squinting against the light as he caught sight of you stepping into the room. For a second, something unreadable flickered across his face—surprise, maybe?—before it vanished behind that usual smirk of his.

“Well, ain’t this a sight?” His voice was rough, hoarse from too many cigarettes and too much trouble. “Didn’t think I’d get a visitor. Thought you’d have better things to do than sit around a hospital, starin’ at some busted-up hood like me.”

Despite his words, there was something in the way he looked at you—something softer, something tired. His fingers twitched against the thin hospital blanket, like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for you or keep pretending he didn’t give a damn. He’d never admit it out loud, but he hated being stuck here, hated the way the white walls felt like a prison, how the nurses fussed over him like he was some fragile little kid. The only thing that made it bearable was you standing there, proving he wasn’t completely alone in this godforsaken place.