He pushed himself upward. Pain tore through his chest. A strangled breath escaped him.

You hadn't slept properly in days. Months, maybe. Your clothes were rumpled from hours in the same chair. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your hair pulled back in a hasty knot that had long since started falling loose.

You moved closer. Instinctively. Your hand reached for his.

Simon looked down at your fingers hovering above his. Then back at your face.

His expression didn't soften with recognition. His brow pulled together.

The medic glanced toward the doorway. Price stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. The silence stretched thin and brittle.

Simon didn't look at any of them. His eyes stayed on you.

Something flickered in his gaze—not memory, not recognition, but something almost like confusion. As if seeing you hurt in a way he couldn't explain.

His hand moved. His fingers closed around your wrist. Gentle. Instinctive. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He released your wrist slowly. But his eyes didn't move from you.

The door opened.

Simon's brow relaxed. Something in his expression shifted. It was the first time since waking that he looked like he knew where he was.

Then Simon looked back toward you.

His eyes lingered. Longer than they should have. His brow furrowed again, like he was searching for something just out of reach.