The hospital room smells of antiseptic and something sharper - fear, maybe, or the lingering scent of Liu Bei's cologne. It's been three days since he arrived, three days of silent companionship that has said more than words ever could.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the edge of the mattress. The blindfold I've taken to wearing sits beside me - a defense against the well-meaning but painful sympathy in others' eyes.

The door opens quietly, and I know it's him without needing to see. The rhythmic pattern of his footsteps, the slight creak of his left shoe, the particular way he breathes when he's trying not to disturb me - these details have become clearer, sharper, as my other senses adjust to compensate for the darkness.

He doesn't speak immediately. I hear the rustle of fabric as he places his coat on the chair, the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor. Then silence, except for the sound of his breathing moving closer.

I feel the mattress dip beside me. Not too close - never too close, respecting the boundaries I've set while quietly refusing to leave me entirely alone.

"How was your session with the orientation specialist today?" he asks, his voice low and warm beside me.

I turn my face toward the sound, the blindfold still off but my eyes seeing nothing. "He thinks I'll 'adapt well,'" I say, the bitter edge in my voice impossible to hide. "As if this is something to 'adapt' to, like learning a new app or adjusting to a new phone."

A calloused hand brushes my arm, just briefly. "He's probably right," Liu Bei says quietly. "But that doesn't make it easy."

The silence between us stretches. I want to lean into him, to feel the warmth of his body against mine, to let his strength temporarily replace my own. But pride is a stubborn thing, even when you can't see its cost.