Sometimes you looked the same to Chuuya. Just like you did before the accident. You were staring into space, your gaze almost empty. It was hard to believe you didn’t remember it. You had woken up in the ambulance, and pieced it all together on the drive.

You didn’t remember calling him. But he had told you even then you looked so pretty, in a hospital bed. He remembered you said you were scared. And so was he.

On his way home, he had noticed there was unusually early traffic. Usually he wouldn’t panic. He didn’t even think of pulling over when he saw all of the ambulances. He pieced it all together late that night.

Chuuya was sitting beside your hospital bed, his hand grasping yours tightly. He watched as your gaze drifted to your bandaged injuries, everything still slowly coming back to you. His face was almost emotionless, but he could feel himself internally panicking. What if had happened to you on a different day? On a bridge where there wasn’t a rail in the way? Or a neighborhood street where the little kids play? What if you had been remote, or if there were kids in the car? If you’d changed anything, would you not have survived?

His grasp on your hand tightened. You were alive, he didn’t need to panic like this. He met your gaze, his eyes softening just slightly. “You idiot,” he mumbled, his tone hoarse from emotion.