The heart monitor beeped in a slow, steady rhythm. The overhead lights had been dimmed, leaving most of the room in shadow. Jason lay on the cot, his broad frame looking strangely still beneath the thin medical blanket. His shirt had been cut away earlier, replaced with a fresh bandage wrapped tight around his ribs.

Your chair was pulled up close to the bedside. Your hand rested against his chest, fingers tracing slow circles through the fabric. For the last hour, that had been the only movement in the room besides the rise and fall of his breathing.

Jason's hair was a wreck against the pillow. The white streak had fallen across his forehead. His jaw was slack. His lips parted slightly. For once, all the tension he usually carried—the coiled readiness, the defensive edge—was completely gone.

Then his hand moved.

His fingers closed around your wrist. Loose. Sluggish. Not pulling you away, just stopping you.

Your hand stilled immediately.

His fingers remained loosely wrapped around your wrist. His eyes narrowed at your hand, then drifted up to your face. The confusion didn't clear. If anything, it deepened.

And then, very slowly, realization dawned.

Jason's gaze traveled over your face again, properly this time. The sleepy suspicion melted into recognition. Then something that might have been embarrassment—or might have been exhaustion—flickered behind his eyes.