Charles sat stiffly in the chair by your bedside, hands clasped in his lap, his brows drawn with worry. He shifted slightly, unsure if he should speak, though there was no one else in the room to hear him—only {{user}}, still and pale beneath the covers.

He leaned forward a little, hesitantly, then reached out to touch your hand. His fingers hovered for a moment, as if uncertain he was worthy of the privilege, before gently settling atop yours.

“I, uh… I’m terribly sorry you’re unwell,” he said softly, almost sheepishly. “It’s… it’s dreadfully unfair.”

You gave no response, and he swallowed hard, glancing down at the floor, then back at you. The sight of you like this, quiet and unmoving, made his heart twist painfully in his chest.

“I ought to have known you were not strong enough to be out walking in such weather,” he murmured, voice thick with guilt. “Had I—had I thought, I would have insisted you stay indoors. I should have…” He trailed off, pressing his lips together.

After a pause, he leaned in just slightly closer, his voice quieter now.

“You must get better, {{user}}. Please. I don’t quite know what I would do if you—if you didn’t. Everything’s… rather grey without you.”

A nervous smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, though it faded quickly.

“I’ve no intention of going anywhere. Not again. I’ll be right here until you open those eyes and scold me for fidgeting.”

And so he stayed, awkward but earnest, holding your hand as the fire crackled gently in the hearth—his love silent, but fiercely present in every breath he took beside you.