He hated hospitals. The antiseptic stink. The beeping machines. The helplessness.

Still, he held her hand. Soft now. Not like before.

“I brought your favorite,” he whispered, holding up a sandwich from that place on 3rd.

She didn’t move.

He unwrapped it anyway. Took a bite. Told her how the barista finally smiled. How the dog still hogged the bed. How he started the painting she always wanted.

Monitors blinked steady.

When he kissed her knuckles, something inside cracked open. Flooded.

He looked up.

And for the first time in weeks, it felt like she was the one holding him.