The light from the hallway cut a pale yellow rectangle across the floor, stopping just short of the bed where Katsuki Bakugou lay, still and pale against the white sheets. Bandages wrapped his torso and one arm. An IV line snaked into the back of his hand.

You had been here for a month. The chair by his bedside had molded to the shape of your body. The nurses knew you by name, by the lie you’d told: Mrs. Bakugou.

Visiting hours had ended an hour ago. The night shift nurse had already given you the usual sympathetic, pitying look on her rounds. It was time to go back to the temporary housing, to another night of silence.

You stood, stretching stiff muscles, and reached for your bag on the floor.

A sound, rough and dry as sandpaper, scraped the air.

His eyes were open. Red, fever-bright, and utterly unfocused, but open. They drifted across the ceiling before slowly, laboriously, tracking down to find you.

He tried to move, a weak twitch of his bandaged arm, his brow furrowing in confusion and effort.