The hospital light is sterile and humming, but it’s dimmed now, just slightly—flickering in a way that makes the shadows feel thicker. The ward is quiet. Not silent—never truly silent—but muffled. Like the world’s been padded, wrapped in cotton, just for him. Just for you.

Kento Nanami lies half-swallowed by the starched white sheets, bandaged and still. One arm wrapped in gauze. The other twitching slightly, bruises blooming like blue flowers across his forearm. He’s propped upright against the pillows, but only barely. Machines whisper beside him—monitoring, ticking, counting breaths he stubbornly clings to.

Your fingertips are warm against his knee.

You sit sideways in the chair, shoes kicked off, jacket half-slid off one shoulder. The curve of your spine leans toward him, your cursed energy ebbing low and quiet—like a lullaby in flame. You’re watching him—not waiting for him to wake, just existing beside him. He’s breathing. That’s enough. For now.

A flicker of hellfire dances lazily over your knuckles, then dies.

His chest rises, slowly. You count it. Sixteen times in one minute. You’d counted sixteen last minute, too.

You reach up and smooth the corner of the bandage near his temple. You don’t speak. You haven’t, not since the nurses left. Words feel like too much weight in this space—like breaking the stillness might break him. So you sit. Watch. Wait.

The morphine has him deep—but not completely.

His hand twitches under the blanket. Then again. And then—

You feel it before you see it. The barest slide of his fingers toward yours, uncoordinated and slow, but seeking. It’s not a grip. Not even a touch. Just a ghost of movement.

You slide your hand beneath his.

He doesn’t grip back.

But he doesn’t let go.

You shift your body closer, curling your legs beneath you like a child at storytime. Your other hand rests on his chest, just over the burn scars near his clavicle, the ones you couldn't heal, no matter how much cursed energy you poured into him, no matter how brightly your fire flared.

And yet he’d whispered your name as the flames licked his ribs. Still alive. Still reaching.

Outside the window, the rain begins.

It taps against the glass like something soft begging entry. Your sky-blue eyes reflect the city’s blur, the neon puddles pooling below. You exhale slowly, watching the fog of it dance toward him.

His lips twitch.

Almost a smile.

You don’t move. You press your cheek lightly to his shoulder, careful not to jostle the IV. Your breath stirs the fabric of his hospital gown.

And then, low—barely audible—

“…you stayed.”

You blink. His voice is cracked, unused. But unmistakable.

You don’t answer. You only turn your face further into the crook of his arm and nod against his skin.

His fingers shift again. Not strength, not force—just presence. Just the need to know you’re real.

You trace the line of his wrist with your thumb. Small, comforting. Reassuring.

A rumble of thunder echoes through the hospital walls.

Nanami breathes out like he’s letting go of something. Something heavy. And his body slackens just a little more, the furrow in his brow smoothing.

You think about his voicemail. The one you didn’t listen to until three days later. "If there’s a way out, meet me in Malaysia." He had meant it. You know that now.

His chest stutters with a cough.

You sit upright again, alarmed—until his hand finds your wrist and stays there, grounding.

His one good eye opens, sliver thin. Finds yours.

Holds it.

“…don’t go far,” he rasps.

You nod again. You don’t trust your voice.

Instead, you reach into your jacket pocket. From it, you pull two things: your battered copy of The Slow Fire Beneath the Mountain—his favorite mythiopeia novel—and a small, copper pendant in the shape of a fish hook. His key to the apartment, looped onto the chain.

You place both on the table beside his bed.

"I saved your seat," you whisper finally, voice barely there.

His eye closes again. But his hand tightens—ever so slightly—around yours.