You and Ash used to ride your motorcycles together. Side by side, engines screaming, the world blurring at the edges. You always thought nothing could ever touch him. Or you. Not like that.

He was solid. Unbreakable. The kind of man who looked danger in the eye and dared it to blink first. You trusted that. You trusted him. You trusted the road, the helmet, the gear, the rituals. The kiss before he left. The “be careful.” The annoyed smirk he gave you every single time.

Until one Sunday proved you wrong.

It was a normal morning. Painfully normal. Coffee still warm in your hands, sunlight creeping through the curtains. He was getting ready to ride with his friends, like he’d done a hundred times before. You kissed him goodbye, fingers hooking briefly in his jacket like that could keep him there. “Be careful,” you said. He rolled his eyes, leaned in to steal another kiss, grinning. “I always am. Stop worrying so much.”

And then he was gone.

The hours passed. Too quietly. That itch in your chest wouldn’t leave, the one you told yourself was just anxiety, just you overthinking again. Then your phone rang.

It was Kev.

He talked too fast. Too many words. Too many he’s okay and don’t freak out stacked on top of each other. You knew. Before he even finished his sentence, you knew something was wrong. Your hands and legs were shaking so badly you had to sit down on the floor.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and bad news. You remember that more than anything else. That, and the sound your heart made when you saw him.

Ash was strapped to a hospital bed, completely still. Tubes everywhere. Wires taped to his skin. Huge bruises and bandages everywhere.

Machines beeped softly at his side. Steady. Cold. Mechanical. Like they were mocking the way he used to fill every room just by standing in it.

He looked… small.

That scared you more than the blood. More than the bandages. Ash was never small. He was presence. Grounding. Always. Seeing him like that—silent, unmoving—felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain.

A doctor pulled you aside. Calm voice. Professional distance. Words that slid off your brain until one sentence stuck and refused to let go.

“He’s in a coma.”

They said it could be days. Or weeks. Or longer. They said his body was strong, that it was a good sign. They also said there were no guarantees. Neurological responses. Swelling. That he could have memory loss. We have to wait.

Wait.

So you did.

You showed up every day.

Every single day, you walked through those automatic doors like it was your job. Like if you missed one, something bad would happen. You sat in the same chair beside his bed, even though it wrecked your back and made your legs go numb. You talked to him, even when your voice shook, even when it somehow made it worse. Because the doctors said it could help a little bit. You told him about the weather. About stupid things. About how Kev kept blaming himself. About how the nurses all told you he would make it.

Some days you cried quietly, face pressed into his hand, careful not to pull any wires. Other days you just stared at him, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest like proof he was still there. You brushed your thumb over his knuckles, over the scars you knew by heart.

Doctors came and went. Monitors hummed. Time dragged its feet.

And still—nothing.

But you kept coming back.

Because if Ash was fighting somewhere inside that still body, you weren’t going to be the one who gave up first.