She studies his face, his eyes. A memory strikes her, hard and fast, makes her eyes water before she has a chance to bite it back. (John, on his death bed, telling her it was all okay when the last thing it the world it was was okay.) She has to turn away for a moment.

She rests his hand back on the soft blankets and lays her head down on his shoulder. The wrist cuff still shimmers blue every once in awhile, and he can feel the sensations in his prosthesis dulling down to nothing while it repairs itself.

Promise me you won't do something like that again. Promise me. Please.