The door to the room slowly swung open, and a nurse pushed a wheelchair inside. And there he was. Levi. He had a tangle of clear tubes snaking from his arm, but his color was back. The deathly pallor, the clamminess, the sickly sheen – all gone. He looked… well, he looked like Levi. His eyes met mine, and a reassuring smile, a slightly weaker one, spread across his face.

"I am alright, dear," he rasped.

He had no idea the agonizing eternity each breath had been for me in his absence. A sob escaped my lips, and I lunged forward, every fiber of my being screaming to hold him, to feel his warmth, to assure myself he was truly real. But firm hands – the nurses, the doctors – intervened.

"Easy now, dear," Levi chuckled softly, a hint of pain flickering across his features. "I have stitches… everywhere."

Tears streamed down my face, sobs wracking my body as I tried to speak, to tell him everything I had felt, the terror, the guilt, the overwhelming relief. But the flurry of medical activity continued around him – checks, adjustments, hushed consultations. Gradually, the nurses and the bodyguards slipped out of the room, leaving a small circle: Holden, a doctor, Levi, and me, still trembling with the aftershocks of fear. The doctor then addressed Levi, his tone matter-of-fact.

"For the pain, Mr. Blake, we'll prescribe a course of opioids."

No... Twelve years of addiction, four months clean—how do we dull this without dragging him back into the dark? No. No. No.

Levi’s voice, held steel as he firmly reiterated, "No. Absolutely not." The doctor, however, remained insistent. He countered Levi's refusal with an explanation of the anticipated pain levels, emphasizing that without strong analgesics, the discomfort would likely be unmanageable.

Oh no… would it truly be unbearable? The doctor then proceeded to detail the extent of Levi’s injuries, the network of stitches holding him together, the deep trauma to his abdomen. Yet, despite the doctor's reasoned arguments and the reality of his physical state, Levi remained resolute in his refusal.

Then, the doctor, running out of options, suggested, "What about methadone?"

The reaction was instantaneous and vehement. A simultaneous shout of protest erupted from both Levi and Holden, their faces contorted with alarm. I, however, was lost.

"Methadone? What is it?" I asked Levi, my brow furrowed with confusion.

He offered a grim smile, a shadow of his usual sardonic wit. "Ah, nothing much, dear. It's simply long acting opioid, without the euphoric rush, but with twice the charming risk of death."

"What? How can a drug like that even be prescribed?"

"You miss a dose, your body throws itself into violent withdrawal, potentially fatal. You mix it with other drugs? Same risk. Or, if you're lucky, you might just slip into a coma."

“Gods…” The word escaped my lips as a strangled gasp, my breath catching in my throat, a wave of dizziness washing over me. “No, no, no…”

My chest tightened, and the room began to spin. The doctor firmly guided me to sit on the edge of the bed.

Levi, despite his own pain and exhaustion, focused his gaze on the doctor. "Give me a non-opioid," he instructed. "Something I can take around four to six-hour intervals. Just something non-narcotic." The doctor hesitated, clearly still concerned about the severity of Levi's pain. With a sigh, he finally yielded, nodding slowly. "Alright, Mr. Blake. We can try that."

With the doctor gone, Levi and Holden began to discuss something, their voices low and serious. After a brief exchange, Holden nodded and quietly left the room to retrieve the prescribed medication.

“L-Levi,” I choked out, more violent sobs wracked my body. He maneuvered his wheelchair closer to the bed, each small movement eliciting a low grunt of pain.

“Dear,” he said softly, “I am alright. Tell me about you, hm?”

“Thanks to you…” I managed between gasping breaths, tears streaming down my face, “my chest… and ribs… weren’t crushed…”

“Yes, dear,” he said gently, his hand reaching out to touch mine, “always wear your seatbelt.”

“W-What happened to you?”

“They cleaned out the shards, sewed me up like a rather well-loved doll, dear. I have layers of stitches, on the abdominal wall, on the skin… The trickiest part was ensuring every last sliver of glass was removed. But it’s done now. I am alright.”

“I am… so sorry…” The words tumbled out, thick with unshed tears and the crushing weight of guilt.

“Raphael,” Levi said softly, his hand now holding mine, his thumb gently stroking my skin. “It was an accident. Blaming yourself will only fester and hurt you further. We are both alive. We are both, ultimately, alright. But if you still feel the need to atone for some imagined transgression, you can dedicate yourself to nursing me back to perfect health, hm?”

“Of course I will,” I vowed, my voice thick with emotion. “Of course, Levi. It was so terrifying… to see you like that… And how… how did they even find us so quickly?”

“Code red has its advantages, dearest,” Levi explained, a hint of his usual wryness returning. “It signifies someone requiring immediate, critical medical assistance. Holden, already had a GPS tracker installed in my vehicle, a… precautionary measure, shall we say. And I instructed him on standby operating room protocols for Academia. You see, my dear? Everything turned out alright.”

“I want to hug you…”

“Bad idea, dear,” Levi said, a hint of a wince flickering across his face.

“I know.”

“Right now,” he explained, his voice softening, “the blessed anesthesia is masking the true extent of the damage. But it will wear off, my dear. And because the primary injury wasn't superficial, the pain that will follow… it will be brutal. Deep, internal agony. Every single movement, every shift in position, will likely elicit a rather… dramatic vocal performance from me.” A wry smile touched his lips, but the underlying seriousness of his words was clear.

“Did… did it hurt your organs, Levi?”

“No, thankfully, not the organs themselves,” he reassured me, his voice a touch stronger now. “Considering a shard of glass, quite impressively sized – larger than my hand, in fact – decided to take up residence in my abdomen, I’d say we’ve been rather fortunate. It sliced through the skin and muscle, a rather unpleasant intrusion, but it stopped short of anything… vital. So, all things considered, a remarkably lucky accident.” He then shifted his gaze to me. “And you, dear Raphael? What about your injuries?”

“I… I hit my head pretty hard,” I admitted, touching the tender spot on my temple. “And my chest… well, it feels like I went a few rounds with a particularly aggressive boxer. I’m bruised, Levi, like a truly rotten potato. And there are some cuts on my arms, mostly superficial. But… I’m fine. Truly. I am.” My insistence felt a little too vehement, even to my own ears.

“I am glad too, dear,” Levi said, squeezing my hand weakly. “And the doctors here are exceptional. They will manage your pain effectively, and with a few sessions of laser treatment down the line, those superficial cuts of yours will fade away as if they never happened.”

“Can we… can we go home now?”

Levi’s smile softened with understanding, but he shook his head. “No, my dear. Not even close. Academia won't release me anytime soon. They need to monitor the after-effects of the anesthesia, administer a full course of antibiotics to prevent infection, and check these rather extensive stitches to ensure everything is healing as it should.”

“Can I… can I see your stitches, Levi?” A morbid curiosity mixed with a desire to fully comprehend the extent of his injuries prompted the question.

Levi chuckled softly, a hint of weariness in his voice. “No, my dear. It’s all rather… comprehensively bandaged at the moment. But perhaps you can steal a peek at this magnificent monstrosity during one of the dressing changes. It’s quite the artwork, I assure you.” He then sighed, his eyelids beginning to droop. “Now, Raphael… I am rather overwhelmingly sleepy, if you’ll forgive me. Would you be a dear and press that red button on the bedside? It will summon a nurse. Holden, I suspect, will be arriving shortly with more comfortable attire for us both and, hopefully, something resembling actual food.” His eyes closed for a fleeting moment.

The nurses guided Levi from the wheelchair to the hospital bed. Each small shift of his weight elicited a low, guttural grunt of pain. Shortly after, Holden arrived, bearing the necessities of your disrupted lives: soft clothes, a tray of bland but welcome food, and the tools of Levi's relentless world – his laptop and portable hard drive. Gods. He was stitched together, a fragile patchwork of skin and muscle held by thread both visible and unseen, yet he would work.

"No eating or drinking for me for at least six hours, dear," Levi murmured, his voice already softening with the pull of exhaustion, "you eat your food."

As swiftly as a candle flickers and died, he drifted into a deep sleep. My own hands trembled so violently that the spoon clattered against the rim of the lukewarm chicken soup. Holden, sat beside me on the hospital couch, his face etched with concern as he offered a steadying hand. Look at this man, a creature of pure efficiency and veiled agendas, actually displaying something akin to human empathy. A truly surprising, almost unsettling, turn of events. After I managed to choke down a few spoonfuls, Holden quietly departed.

I changed into the soft clothes. But amidst this personal crisis, this intimate chaos, the medical students, doctors, and nurses continued to buzz around our room like relentless bees around a hive, their hushed whispers and hurried footsteps a constant intrusion. Gods. Couldn't they see? Couldn't they grant us a moment of respite? Couldn't they, just for a little while, allow this man the quiet he so desperately needed?

The relentless cycle of intrusions was tightening a knot of fury in my chest. No. Breathe, Raphael. Just… breathe. "I'm just going for a smoke," I told one of the nurses. She offered a weary nod, but even as I walked down the corridors, I could feel the countless eyes on my back, the unspoken scrutiny of everyone around us. From their perspective, it was understandable. Levi Blake, the owner of this very institution, was lying injured within those walls. And I, a walking testament to the violence of the crash with my bruises and cuts, was undoubtedly a figure of intense curiosity. But understanding did little to soothe the raw edges of my nerves. As I made my way towards the exit, a silent presence fell in step behind me. Levi's bodyguards. Of course. Even a brief respite was apparently a security risk. With a sigh of resignation, I informed them of my intention to smoke, and they dutifully escorted me to the designated smoking area.

...

The smoking area, tucked away in a corner of the sprawling campus, offered an unexpected sanctuary. Even here, amidst the metal benches and overflowing ashtrays, the grandeur of Academia's three-century-old architecture loomed. The sheer scale and intricate detail of the buildings were captivating. As I drew on my cigarette, a steady stream of students, clutching steaming coffee cups, filtered into the space. They spoke of lectures, exams, late-night study sessions, the mundane triumphs and tribulations of their academic pursuits. It felt… grounding. A comforting reminder that life, in its messy and ordinary beauty, continued to unfold beyond the hospital rooms and the echoing trauma of shattered glass. A strange fascination settled over me as I watched them. Levi's vision for this place flickered in my mind – his ambition to transform this bastion of elite education into a public institution. His motives, of course, were characteristically pragmatic, a strategic move to secure a steady stream of brilliant minds for his burgeoning pharmaceutical empire. Yet, as I gazed at the students, their youthful energy vibrant against the ancient backdrop, I couldn't deny the inherent good in his plan.

The surgeon, a man whose hands had held Levi's life in the balance just hours before, found me. He lit his own cigarette. He then launched into a detailed explanation of Levi's surgery, his words a torrent of medical jargon that swirled around me. Apparently, they had employed an unconventional stitching technique, one that he suggested might result in a less prominent scar. His intellectual rambling, felt like a foreign language to my emotionally frayed mind. But the gist, as I vaguely understood it, was this: instead of stitching the skin edges together from above, they had utilized robotics to sew the layers beneath the surface, a more intricate and, hopefully, aesthetically pleasing approach.

Ah, so that explained the celebratory atmosphere I'd sensed earlier.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on NovelBin. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

They had stitched Levi's abdominal wall – a concept that remained stubbornly abstract in my mind. Veins had been severed and rejoined. Countless fragments of glass, tiny and treacherous, had been plucked from the hollow of his abdomen, each requiring its own repair. The internal stitches, at least, would dissolve. But the question that clawed at my throat, the one that eclipsed all the medical jargon, was pain. Twelve years Levi had battled the insidious grip of opioid addiction. How could they possibly manage pain of this magnitude, this deep, internal tearing, without dragging him back into that?

The surgeon continued, outlining the arduous path to recovery: good nutrition, a sanctuary free from the pressures of his life, and a complete avoidance of stress and anxiety. Stress and anxiety, I suspected, operated on a different plane for his neurodivergent mind. Yet, despite the surgeon's well-intentioned advice, a weary certainty settled within me. Levi would work.

...

The sterile quiet of the hospital room felt suffocating. A small, impulsive rebellion took hold. A little adventure. Levi was safe, for the moment, and sleep offered him a temporary reprieve. I needed a similar distraction from the gnawing anxiety of his pain. Leaving a brief word with the bodyguards, I ventured out into the hushed corridors. I wandered, drawn by an unspoken curiosity, ascending a series of grand, creaking staircases. I found myself within the heart of the campus building itself. The long corridors hummed with a energy, the walls a vibrant tapestry of student life: notices for upcoming lectures, faded photographs of past festivals, bold declarations of intellectual forums, and an array of announcements detailing countless other scholarly pursuits. At the far end of one such corridor, a splash of color caught my eye – an oil painting, framed in dark, ornate wood. I walked towards it, drawn by an invisible thread, and stopped before it, my breath catching slightly.

'Griffith Blake'.

Levi’s great-great-great-great-grandfather, I assumed. The visionary who had conceived and built this magnificent institution. A physician, a chemist, and, according to the inscription beneath the portrait, a botanist with a devoted passion. The man in the painting possessed a striking presence. Long, flowing black hair cascaded down to his waist, framing a sharply sculpted face. His eyes, slanted and brown, held a gaze that seemed to pierce through the centuries. In his hand, held with reverence, was a single flower. The Aether Bloom.

The irony of it all was a bitter taste in my mouth. The Conqueror, had never even laid eyes on the Aether Bloom, the true source of their enduring power. He remained blissfully ignorant of the scientific marvel that underpinned his family's fortune. Levi, on the other hand, had built an entire pharmaceutical empire upon the very properties of this flower. He'd once recounted to me how, as a child during a lesson on the Blake family history, he'd first heard whispers of the Aether Bloom. Initially, his motivation was deeply personal: chemistry to find a cure for his ailing sister. But perhaps, somewhere along the way, a deeper ambition had taken root – the desire to redefine their family's legacy, to build upon a foundation of intellect and healing.

The irony isn't just bitter; it's a full-blown poison blooming in my gut. This flower, the key to their power, the foundation of everything... and it's a super-opioid. It's like the universe has a sick sense of humor. Griffith, did he even fathom the potential for destruction within his beautiful bloom? Did he see the shadow it could cast? And Levi... his whole empire, built on this, a testament to his intellect and drive... and now it's the very thing that could drag him back down. The power, the wealth, the potential for healing, the risk of addiction... all wrapped up in that single, elegant flower in the painting. Just like Levi. He built himself up, fought his way back... and now this. Please, gods, don't let this flower be his undoing. Don't let their legacy be stained again. Not by the very thing that built it.

Returning to the hospital room felt like stepping back into a cage of worry. Levi lay still in the bed, his chest rising and falling evenly. Thank god he was sleeping. That journey into the Blake family history, now replayed in the theater of my mind. As I lay on the uncomfortable hospital couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, the white transformed into a canvas for elaborate daydreams. Elegant noble parties flickered into existence, their laughter echoing in the imagined halls. I saw ladies in bejeweled gowns sipping tea from delicate porcelain, their conversations hushed and refined. Then, the scene would shift to dimly lit laboratories, filled with bubbling beakers and the scent of strange concoctions, Griffith Blake a shadowy figure hunched over his experiments. The opulence of their attire, the grandeur of their lives… My brain, desperate for any form of escape, had clearly succumbed to the allure of fantasy.

In the theater of my mind, I knelt before the painted figure, my hands clasped, my gaze fixed on his serene, intelligent face. A silent, fervent entreaty poured forth – a desperate wish for this long-dead ancestor to somehow intercede, to shield his descendant from the insidious pull of addiction. It was a whisper into the void. I held no faith in divine intervention, no belief in benevolent spirits watching over us.

...

As the first pale light of the morning seeped through the window, I woke with a dull throb behind my eyes. I stumbled into the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting back a startling image. What the actual fuck? Two angry, swollen bulges protruded from my forehead, making me look like some ridiculous, miniature devil. In the chaos and terror of the night, I had completely forgotten the simple, crucial instruction: apply ice.

I lifted my shirt. A swirling canvas of angry blues, deep purples, sickly greens, and bruised yellows bloomed across my chest. Against my better judgment, a childish impulse to poke the vibrant discoloration won out. Bad idea. A sharp, searing pain shot through my torso, forcing me to clench every muscle in my body to stifle a scream. But that clenching had an immediate consequence. My abs, still tender from the impact, protested the sudden contraction with a chorus of fiery protests. I didn't just look like a rotten potato; I felt like one.

Emerging gingerly from the bathroom, I located our small medicine bag. I retrieved the tube of analgesic cream. With painstaking slowness, I began to apply the cream to my chest. God damn. It felt like rubbing fire into raw flesh. Each gentle swipe, sent a jolt of searing pain through my torso, eliciting an involuntary hiss of breath caught between my teeth.

Then Levi's sleep shattered.

It wasn't a gentle stirring, a gradual return to consciousness. It was a violent eruption. His eyes snapped open, unfocused and wide with agony, and his entire body was seized by uncontrollable tremors. Every muscle in his frame seemed to convulse, a silent scream etched in his contorted features. His hand, trembling violently, slammed against the red call button on the wall, the urgent chime echoing through the sterile room. Almost instantly, a flurry of nurses descended upon him. I watched, helpless, as one of them prepared a syringe, and swiftly injected the medication deep into the muscle of his thigh.

The nurses dabbed at the sheen of sweat that slicked his face and neck, an instantaneous outpouring as if every pore in his body had opened at once. Then, a doctor arrived, his gaze immediately drawn to the chart at the foot of the bed. All I could do was stand by, a helpless observer, as Levi's jaw clenched and unclenched, each deep, ragged breath a visible effort to regain some semblance of control against the brutal waves of pain.

Each passing second felt like an eternity. His eyes were now bloodshot, the whites disappearing into a furious crimson. His grip on the metal railings of the bed tightened, his knuckles bone-white, as his entire body coiled and trembled with the relentless waves of pain. A primal urge surged within me – to hold him, to offer some physical comfort, anything to break through this agonizing isolation. But my touch, my clumsy attempts at solace, would likely be nothing but a further irritation. I had to wait. Wait for the blessed relief of the painkillers to finally take hold. The nurses and doctors, were now firmly restraining his movements, their primary concern to prevent any sudden twist or strain that could tear apart the intricate network of stitches holding him together.

The doctor's words, something about being thankful he hadn't vomited, were lost in the overwhelming symphony of Levi's agony. His pained groans escalated, each one tearing through the air, until they culminated in a raw, heart-wrenching cry that echoed the brutal tearing within his body. And then, finally, blessedly, a change. A deep, shuddering inhale filled his lungs, followed by a slightly less strained exhale. The painkillers had finally, mercifully, kicked in.

"Gods..." Levi breathed out again, the word a shaky exhalation of profound relief. Yeah. Gods. I had witnessed his resilience firsthand countless times. I'd seen him calmly stitch a deep gash in his own hand, his expression unwavering, his eyes never once flinching.

"Just... put me in a coma or something," Levi rasped, his voice still shaky, laced with a raw desperation that chilled me to the bone. "I can't... I can't deal with this every day."

Was he being serious? Was the pain truly so unbearable that he would willingly surrender to oblivion?

The doctor, with a bluntness that bordered on callousness, firmly refused Levi's desperate plea, essentially telling him to be quiet in clinical jargon. He recited the standard medical prognosis: each day would bring a gradual lessening of the agony. Levi, however, remained unconvinced, his face a mask of barely suppressed torment. Years of pushing his body and mind to their limits had forged a remarkable resilience to pain, a capacity to endure that most others could not fathom. He could take it. He would have to.

With the doctor gone, the immediate focus shifted to Levi's basic needs. The nurses suggested he needed to use the restroom, implying a short, painful walk. Levi's immediate and vehement refusal was clear: he'd rather use a bottle. When the nurses broached the idea of a catheter, a look of utter revulsion crossed his face. His counter-offer was delivered with a grim finality: he would sooner tie himself in knots than endure the indignity and discomfort of a plastic tube.

Well… I certainly couldn't argue with that level of conviction. Faced with Levi's unwavering stance and the sheer force of his aversion, the nurses eventually relented, providing him with a urine bag, a compromise that preserved his dignity, albeit a messy one.

Then came the dreaded ritual of mealtime. I returned from the cafeteria with a steaming bowl of porridge, its grainy consistency already a potential trigger. I began to further obliterate any semblance of texture, mashing it relentlessly with a fork and spoon. A few drops of hot water transformed the lumpy mass into an even smoother, more liquid form. Gods. Please. The memory of his violent retching after the last attempt... He couldn't vomit again.

I couldn't bring myself to sit on the bed. Instead, I perched on the nearby chair, my hand trembling slightly as I offered him a tiny spoonful of the utterly bland porridge mush I created. Please, Gods. Please. Please. His lips parted hesitantly, and he swallowed. A wave of relief washed over me, so profound it almost buckled my knees. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice still weak but blessedly free of the earlier torment. Thank gods. He managed a few more spoonfuls, each small movement of his head and shoulders a visible effort. I rose from the chair, leaning in close, my heart lighter than it had been in hours. He had at least had a breakfast. A small victory in the face of the brutal day that had begun.

"Mmh…" Levi murmured, his voice still rough around the edges. "Dearest, how was your night?"

He was trying, I realized, to pull himself out of the immediate discomfort, to offer a distraction for us both.

"I saw your great-great-great-great-grandfather's oil painting," I replied softly, a small smile touching my lips at the memory of the stern-faced Griffith. "I walked around the campus a little. It's… magnificent. Then I came back here. And then," I gestured vaguely towards my forehead, a wry amusement coloring my tone, "I went to the bathroom and discovered these." I tapped one of the swollen bulges. "So, it seems your little angel Raphael has undergone a rather demonic transformation. No longer a celestial being, but a tiny, horned devil."

"Griffith? Ah… That slave owner…" Levi said, his voice flat, the earlier lightness gone, replaced by a familiar weariness. My stomach dropped.

Damn the Blake family and their complicated, shadowed past.

"Devil horns are… pleasing, though," Levi murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. He seemed utterly unconcerned by my historical blunder. Well… it was three centuries ago, wasn't it? Ancient history. Best not to dwell on my own momentary idiocy.

"How are you… really, Levi?" I asked, my voice soft with concern.

"Hm… about a four out of ten on the pain scale, I'd say," he replied, his brow slightly furrowed. "This morning, though… that was probably closer to an eight."

Gods… if an eight felt like that, what in the deepest circles of hell would a ten be?

"Is there anything you want, sweets maybe?"

"Hm… Candy would be nice…" he murmured, his eyes flickering towards the bag of supplies Holden had provided. I reached in and retrieved a brightly wrapped strawberry toffee, carefully placing it on his tongue.

"The food…" he added, a slight grimace crossing his face. "They will prepare something… bland, I'm sure… for me. Do not worry yourself."

I smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "Of course I will worry, you stubborn man. Now shut up and enjoy your candy." He offered a small, tired smile in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

"Also," I added, taking a few steps back and theatrically lifting my shirt, revealing the vibrant tapestry of bruises across my chest, "behold! Your very own walking abstract masterpiece, courtesy of a rogue steering wheel."

"Does it hurt, dear?" he asked, his gaze drifting over the colorful display.

"Only if I'm foolish enough to poke it," I replied with a wry smile. "So, no. Not even in the same universe as what you're going through." His eyelids were already beginning to droop. The tension in his brow eased slightly as sleep claimed him once more.

I continued to stroke his face and the soft strands of his hair, the rhythmic motion a silent vigil. A lump formed in my throat, and my lips began to tremble. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the edges of his still face, and then spilled over, tracing silent paths down my cheeks.

Less than an hour of fragile peace had passed before the insistent shrill of Levi's phone pierced the quiet of the room. His eyelids fluttered open, a flicker of the sharp, focused awareness I knew so well already replacing the soft haze of sleep. Reluctantly, I retrieved his phone and placed it carefully against his ear. "I am out of commission…" he rasped, a hint of his usual authoritative tone still present despite the weakness in his voice. "Thanks…" A pause as he listened intently. "Start the presidential campaigns today… I arranged… everything…" Another pause. "Good… No, do not come to the… hospital…" A longer listen. "Good enough…" he finally said, then turned his head away, a subtle but unmistakable gesture for me to end the call.

"Throw that phone in the toilet. Snap my SIM card."

Okay. Now, Raphael, you stand at a crossroads.

Option one: enforce a sanctuary of rest for my husband, at least for the next three days, until we're out of this sterile prison. A haven of quiet healing, away from the relentless demands of his world.

Option two: acknowledge the unyielding force of his nature, the weight of his responsibilities – presidential campaigns, currency change, the intricate machinery of a nation that seems to rest on his shoulders.

He can't rest, not truly. So. What do I do?

I cupped his face in my hand, my thumb stroking his cheek. "I won't snap it, Levi, but it's going on silent. Okay? Now, you need to sleep."

Hopefully, it was a good compromise.

"Good enough," he murmured, his eyelids already heavy as he drifted back into the blessed oblivion of sleep. Gods. He told me 'good enough'.

I settled into the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, my gaze fixed on his still face. The bruises were already beginning to bloom, mirroring the ones on my own chest.

My own body ached. I should probably get myself checked out more thoroughly, but my focus remained solely on Levi. He needed me here, even if his stubborn pride wouldn't allow him to admit it.

I closed my eyes, exhaustion threatening to pull me under. Just a few minutes. Just a brief respite before the inevitable demands of his world intruded once more.