“Brèagha, glad ya’ a’ight.” Johnny breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of you awake as he walked into your hospital room, a sheepish smile dancing on his lips — cautious as not to frighten you, threading gently.

He had almost lost you during a botched mission. Almost. Although now, you couldn’t remember him, your relationship.

Amnesia, the doctors had explained before he entered, stomach churning at the reality of your situation. And Johnny couldn’t decide what was worse — grieving a dead lover, or the person who they once were.

He sat down on the chair by your bedside, observing your dazed figure, having woken from a coma just hours prior, conflict palpable in his gaze. “‘ought we los’ you ‘here.”