Damiano sat beside the bed, his fingers curled loosely around yours, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on your skin. Your hand felt so small in his, so fragile. The IV line ran up your wrist, disappearing into the tangle of tubes and machines keeping you tethered to this place. Since you got here, he completely abandoned his life, he was with you every second, putting his own comfort in the background.

You squeezed his hand—barely, but enough for him to notice. “You should go home. Sleep. Eat something that isn’t vending machine junk.”

His grip tightened. “Not happening.”

You sighed, turning your head slightly on the pillow to look at him.

“This isn’t fair to you,” you whispered.

“And you think it’s fair to you?” His voice cracked, just a little. He cleared his throat, trying to cover it, but it was too late. The weight of everything settled between you two.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The machines hummed. Footsteps echoed faintly down the hall. Outside, the sun was starting to set, spilling warm light through the window, making everything feel softer than it was.

Finally, Damiano exhaled, leaning down until his forehead rested against your knuckles. “I don’t care if it’s unfair,” he murmured. “I’m staying.”