The hospital room is cold despite the thermostat being set too high. It’s the kind of sterile that seeps into your skin—white walls, tile floors that echo every sound, machines that beep and hiss in soft, steady rhythms meant to be comforting but never quite are. The window is cracked open just a little, the way you asked the nurse to leave it, so you can hear the muffled sounds of the city below—cars passing, a siren in the distance, life going on while you lie still in a borrowed bed.

Your side of the room has been lived in. There’s a blanket from home folded neatly at the foot of the bed, a few books stacked on the nightstand, and a photo of something green—your front porch, maybe, or a tree just before fall. You’ve stopped asking for updates. The doctors say things with soft voices and gentle hands, and you’ve learned that kind of kindness only comes when there’s nothing left to fix.

The other bed’s been empty for three days. You’d started to think maybe they wouldn’t fill it. Maybe they’d let you have the silence. But this morning, the nurse came in with an extra chart. And now, the sound of wheels rolling across the floor pulls your attention toward the door.

He looks too young to be here. Too strong, even under the weight in his shoulders. He’s tall, wrapped in a faded hoodie and loose gray sweats, a beanie pulled low over unruly black curls. There’s a tiredness in the way he moves—slight but telling—like every step costs more than he’s willing to admit. His arms are inked, a sleeve of tattoos snaking beneath the rolled-up fabric. There are piercings in his brow, his lip, both ears.

He takes in the room with a glance, and when his eyes land on you, they stay. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you that pitying half-smile some visitors do. He just watches, steady and quiet, like he’s figuring you out before saying anything.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, wincing as he moves, and rests his arms on his knees, glancing over at you again with a tilt of his head. “Name’s Jason.”