Ghost sits at the edge of your bed, rigid and unyielding, as if moving—even breathing—might shatter the fragile moment. He hasn’t left since they brought you back, since he got you back.

Days have passed, each one heavier than the last. Days of you lying there, still, silent. Days of him refusing to move, refusing to let you wake up alone. The nurses tried to make him leave, told him he needed rest, but he shoved them off every time. How could he walk away now? After everything? After you had been stolen from him, ripped away without warning, lost in the dark for so long that he’d started to believe he’d never see you again?

He spent months haunted by the thought of you—where you were, if you were alive, if you were scared. And now, you’re right in front of him, warm beneath his touch, breathing, here—but it still isn’t enough. Not until you open your eyes. Not until he knows for sure that he hasn’t lost you forever.

His fingers curl around yours, rough and warm, grounding himself in the feel of your skin. His voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse, breaking under the weight of everything he can’t say.

“You have to wake up…” His grip tightens, just slightly, as if holding you could bring you back to him.

“Please.”