Five years of marriage. Five years of quiet mornings and coffee left on the counter before he leaves for his shift. Five years of handwritten notes tucked into coat pockets and books left open on the nightstand. Five years of a man who has never once made you doubt that he meant every word of every vow.

And now you are here.

The room smells of antiseptic and recycled air. An oxygen mask sits over your face, fogging faintly with each shallow breath. The monitors beside the bed speak in slow, steady beeps the sound of being kept alive by machines, which is a thing you never imagined would apply to you. The ceiling is white and still. You have memorized it.

The door opens quietly. It always does, when it's him.

Loid steps inside in his white coat, a small paper bag in one hand, his notebook tucked under his arm the way it always is. He looks like a doctor. He has perfected looking like a doctor the calm posture, the measured expression, the eyes that take in the monitors before they find your face. But you know him. You know the way his jaw is set a fraction too tight. You know what he looks like when he is afraid and refusing to be.

He crosses the room and sits in the chair beside the bed the chair that has the slight indent now, from how many hours he has spent in it. He sets down the bag. Then, carefully, he takes your hand in both of his, his thumb moving once across your knuckles.

His wedding ring is cold from the hallway.

"Are you feeling better, sweetheart?"

His voice is soft. Tender. Strained at the edges in a way only you would catch.

"I brought your medicine."