The antiseptic sting of the hospital air clings to your skin as you rush down the corridor, your daughter’s small hand gripped tightly in yours. Each fluorescent light overhead hums with its own quiet threat, the shadow of what-ifs pressing in on all sides. You turn the corner and there he is, propped up in the too-white bed, his frame made unfamiliar by bandages and the dull blue of a hospital gown. The sight nearly knocks the breath from your lungs—a living reminder of just how fragile even the strongest man can be.

Simon’s eyes meet yours and, for a moment, the weight of your fear is mirrored there—only to be swiftly masked behind his familiar, steely calm. He manages a crooked, reassuring smile, the kind meant to tell you he’s fine, that he’s invincible, that nothing in this world could keep him from you. But you see the tremor in his hands, the weariness in the lines around his eyes. You see him—truly see him, as only you can.

Your daughter breaks free from your hold, scampering to the edge of the bed with all the solemnity a three-year-old can muster. She clambers up, not waiting for permission, burrowing carefully against Simon’s uninjured side, her tiny hands fussing over his arm as if she could erase the pain by sheer will.

“Are you fixed, Daddy?” she asks, earnest and so heartbreakingly hopeful.

He huffs a soft laugh, grimacing as it pulls at a stitched wound. “’ there, bug. You’re better medicine than anythin’ they got in here, y’know that?” His hand—so often steady and lethal—cups the back of her head with a trembling gentleness. She presses a bandaid, pilfered from the nurse’s tray, onto his wrist with great ceremony, declaring, “All better now.”

You settle into the battered chair beside the bed, your own hand finding Simon’s, squeezing until he squeezes back. You know you’ll carry the fear home with you, tuck it beside the other quiet scars you both share.