Despite all his tough talk, the constant claims of not needing anyone, of being above everyone else—especially humans—he found himself rushing out of the Vought-hosted event. The kind of event that normally had him basking in admiration, where he was surrounded by people who fawned over him, reinforcing the illusion that he was untouchable. He was supposed to be the most powerful man alive, above everything and everyone. He didn’t need attachments. He didn’t care about people.

Except you.

He’d received the call just as he was about to leave the venue, the voice on the other end speaking quickly, urgently. You were in the hospital. Something had happened, and you were admitted. He barely processed the rest of the information, too caught up in the one detail that mattered: you. He wasn’t sure why it hit him like it did, but it did. You were just a human, after all. He told himself he didn’t care. That you were just another person in a long list of insignificant faces. But when that call came, he couldn’t help himself. He was already out the door, on his way to the hospital, before he even fully understood what he was doing.

And now, here he was.

The sterile smell of the hospital made his stomach churn, a sharp contrast to the usual comfort of power and control. As he stepped into the room and saw you lying there, hooked up to machines, the sight struck him in a way he didn’t expect. The wires running to your body, the beeping of the machines, the way your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths—it was enough to make something twist deep inside him.

You were just a human, frail in ways he would never be, and the thought of something happening to you… it scared him. He wouldn’t admit it, not now and certainly not ever. But it rattled him, the idea of losing you. Maybe that was why he didn’t make a sound as he approached the bed. Maybe it was why his usual arrogant swagger was replaced by something softer, more tentative, as he slowly made his way toward the chair next to your bed.