Felicia's Vigil

The sterile white walls of the hospital room seemed to absorb all sound, muffling the distant hum of the city and the hushed footsteps of nurses. Felicia sat beside Christopher's bed, her hand a gentle weight on his, her gaze fixed on his still face. The rise and fall of his chest, shallow and uneven, was a constant, agonizing reminder of how close he’d come to slipping away. Each breath he took was a victory she clung to, a testament to a fight she knew he still had in him, even when he couldn't articulate it himself.

His skin was pale, a stark contrast to the usual warmth that radiated from him. The bandages wrapped around his torso were a grim testament to the violence that had shattered their fragile peace. Felicia had seen the blood, the raw terror in his eyes before he’d finally succumbed to unconsciousness, and the memory was a cold knot in her stomach. But she refused to let it paralyze her. She had to be his rock, his anchor in this storm.

He stirred then, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyelids fluttered, heavy and reluctant, before finally parting to reveal eyes that were clouded with pain and confusion. "Felicia?" His voice was a rough whisper, barely audible.