Morning came slowly, diluted by antiseptic light and the low murmur of hospital routines. It slipped through the blinds in pale bands, resting on Vinny's face like a question he wasn't ready to answer yet.
Matthew hadn't moved.
He was still there, seated at the bedside exactly where he'd been when Vinny fell asleep again—spine straight but shoulders bowed, one hand wrapped around Vinny's as if it were an anchor. He'd slept in fragments, if at all. Every beep of a monitor, every footstep in the hall had pulled him back to full alertness.
When Vinny stirred this time, it wasn't from a nightmare.
It was from the ache of being alive.
He inhaled carefully, testing his ribs. They protested, but they held. His fingers twitched—and immediately tightened around Matthew's hand.
Matthew leaned in at once. "Hey. Easy."
Vinny cracked one eye open. "You're hovering."
"I'm breathing," Matthew said quietly. "There's a difference."
