The hospital room was too white. Damiano lay on the hospital bed, his eyes half-open, tired but restless. Tubes and wires snaked around his arms, beeping machines monitoring his every breath.

You sat beside him, fingers nervously twisting the edge of your sweater. The sight of him like this, vulnerable and worn out, made your chest ache. Your fearless Damiano reduced to a patient in a paper-thin gown. It wasn't right.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. “I’m not exactly great company right now.”

You shook your head, a soft smile at your face. “Yeah, well, tough. You’re stuck with me.”

He let out a weak laugh, but it quickly turned into a cough. You reached out instinctively, your hand resting gently on his. His fingers curled around yours, a silent reassurance that he was still here, still fighting.

“I hate this,” he admitted quietly, his gaze dropping to where your hands were connected. “I hate being stuck here. Feeling useless.”

“You're not useless,” you whispered, your thumb brushing softly over his knuckles. “You're just... human. Even you need a break sometimes.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the facade.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “For being here.”