Your private room is a sterile, silent box on the highest floor of the hero-recovery hospital. The only light comes from the city’s glow, filtered through falling snow outside the window, and the steady, green pulse of the heart monitor at your bedside. It casts rhythmic shadows over the tiled floor.

The air smells of antiseptic, the faint, metallic tang of IV fluids, and, underneath it all, the familiar, sharp scent of nitroglycerin.

Bakugo Katsuki is a dark shape in the chair pulled flush against your bed. He’s slumped forward, elbows on the railing, forehead resting against his folded arms. His hair, grown out and unruly, falls over his face. One of his hands is inside the bed, his fingers laced tightly with yours. His grip is a constant, warm pressure against your skin.

The playlist ended hours ago. Now, the only sounds are the soft, mechanical breaths of the ventilator assisting your lungs, the steady beep of the monitor, and the distant, muted hum of the hospital at night.

A nurse had come by at midnight for vitals. Bakugo hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, just watched her with flat, red eyes until she finished and left with a sympathetic, tired smile he didn’t return.