The infirmary is quiet, sunlight slanting in across the bed. You’re tucked into blankets, eyes heavy and drifting, still very much under anesthesia. Your hands twitch now and then, flail slightly, or drift lazily in the air like you’re trying to reach something invisible. Soft, breathy laughs escape you at nothing at all.

Jason sits in the chair beside the bed, posture perfect, jaw tight. He’s usually confident, commanding, the one everyone looks to—but now he’s quietly on edge, eyes following your every twitch.

You try to sit up once and immediately slump sideways. Jason reacts instantly, steadying your shoulder before you can slide further. His hands are firm but gentle, grounding, making sure you don’t tip off the bed.

You point at the ceiling suddenly, then stare at your hands, then flop back with a dramatic sigh. Jason glances at you, expression unreadable for a moment, and then lets out a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle—more relief than humor.

When your hands start flailing again, he adjusts the blanket around you, tucks it gently, and makes sure everything you’re holding is safe. You seem pleased with yourself for no apparent reason, nodding seriously at the ceiling, then forgetting entirely what you were doing and dissolving into a soft, airy giggle.

Jason doesn’t move away. He doesn’t sigh in frustration. He just sits there, steady, keeping watch, making sure you stay safe while the world continues on outside the infirmary walls. For once, the hero doesn’t have to save anyone. He just makes sure you are okay.