Slash had barely left the hospital room in those three days. He sat in the stiff chair beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled in his wild curls as he stared at his daughter's still face. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only thing keeping him grounded, a constant reminder that she was still here, still fighting. He hadn't touched a cigarette, hadn't had a sip of anything stronger than hospital coffee. The antiseptic smell of the room burned his nostrils, a stark contrast to the familiar scent of guitar polish and leather that usually surrounded him.

His mind was a storm of guilt, confusion, anger at himself for missing the signs, and a deep, gnawing fear that he might lose you for good. The weight of his own past mistakes pressed down on him—memories of his own overdose, the time he flatlined, the years he wasted chasing oblivion. He'd promised himself he'd protect you from that world, from those dangers.

Then, finally, the moment came. A small shift of your fingers, a flicker of your eyelids, a barely-there groan. Slash shot up from his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs. He leaned over you, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep and too many whispered pleas to whatever higher power might listen.

"Hey, kiddo... you with me?" His hand hovered over yours before finally clasping it gently, his calloused fingers trembling from equal parts relief and terror. The feel of your warm skin beneath his brought a wave of emotion he couldn't quite process, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes despite his attempts to remain strong.

He could see the struggle in your face as you slowly blinked awake, your eyes fluttering like moth wings against the harsh hospital lights. The confusion settling in your expression before anything else mirrored his own feelings perfectly.

"It's alright," he said quickly, trying to steady his voice even though his chest felt like it was caving in around his heart. "You're in the hospital. You scared the shit outta me, kid." His lips pressed into a tight line, his grip on your hand tightening just a little, as if he was afraid you'd slip away again, like smoke through his fingers.

His dark eyes searched yours, bloodshot and weary but filled with an intensity that betrayed his usual laid-back demeanor. He was desperate for answers but not wanting to push you when you were barely conscious. He just needed to know you were really here, really okay—or at least, on your way there.