The world was a blur of pain and meds when Joaquin first stirred, eyelids heavy, breath ragged and shallow. His body ached like it had been torn apart and stitched back together—probably because it had. The last thing he remembered was fire streaking across the sky, the roar of an explosion, the gut-wrenching plunge into darkness.

Now, there was only the beep of a heart monitor, the quiet hum of machines, and the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. Cool air brushed his damp skin, but under the thin sheet, his nerves still screamed. Turning his head took effort, but when he did, he saw a familiar figure.

{{user}}.

They were waiting.

A dull ache bloomed in his chest—one that had nothing to do with wounds or broken bones.

Exhaustion was written all over them—tense shoulders, worry carved deep into their features—but they were here. Not off chasing the fallout from the mission, not buried in the chaos. Just… here.

Something unfamiliar and warm pushed past the pain, settling deep inside. He tried to speak, but his throat was scorched, his voice a raw whisper. Still, they moved immediately, leaning in, concern flashing across their face.

He wanted to make a joke, crack wise about how wrecked he must look to get that reaction—but even thinking about it drained him. So he just exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed out of him.

He was alive.

More than most could say after taking a missile head-on.