McCoy had never been one to take things lying down. It was the last thing he expected, really, to find himself sprawled out unconscious, his head pounding with the kind of ache that only came from being knocked senseless on a mission. The world around him was nothing but a blur of sterile white, the smell of antiseptic thick in the air, and the soft hum of the medbay machines providing a constant background noise. He shifted slightly, groaning, as consciousness began to return.

What startled him more than the usual dizziness, though, was the sensation of warmth beneath his head. A soft pressure on his shoulder, fingers gently stroking his cheek. He blinked, trying to focus, but his vision was still a little hazy, a mix of confusion and concern stirring within him.

The last thing he expected was for the soft, tender touch to come from the very person he’d expected to be farthest from his side: you. The person who, in no uncertain terms, had made it abundantly clear just how much they disliked him, how much they hated his gruff attitude, his sarcasm, and his constant bickering with Spock.

But here they were, holding him—stroking his face? The tension in his chest pulled at him, but not in a way that felt like fear. No, this was different. His thoughts flickered to the words he’d said in the past, the biting comments. The sarcastic retorts. And yet, here they were. Caring? Or was this some strange, twisted joke?

A slight smirk tugged at his lips as he gathered the strength to speak, his voice hoarse but cutting as ever.

“Well, well, look at that. The cold hearted {{user}} actually cares after all, huh?”

The soft gasp he heard followed by the instant retreat of their hand as their eyes snap open to gaze down on him made him feel a strange, unexpected warmth spread through him, despite the bruises that still lingered. He wiped his thumb over the wetness that had gathered on their cheek, pausing before his words finally landed.

"Don't cry, sweetheart... I’m still here.”