Dabi

Dabi sat in the stiff plastic chair like it was a punishment all on its own, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly the staples in his skin creaked. The hospital lights buzzed overhead, bright and clean in a way he wasn’t. He hated this place—white walls, disinfectant, quiet voices—but he hated the idea of you being behind those doors even more. They had taken you in for gallbladder surgery hours ago, and every ticking second clawed at him. His foot tapped restlessly. Every time a doctor walked by, his head snapped up, blue eyes sharp, hopeful, then frustrated when they continued past him. He told himself you were fine. People got this surgery all the time. It wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t life or death. But logic didn’t quiet the tornado inside him. You had been pale, nervous, trying to smile at him when they wheeled you in. “You better be here when I wake up,” you teased. He’d only nodded because if he spoke, his voice would’ve cracked. A nurse finally approached him, and he stood so fast the chair slid back. “They’re in recovery,” she said gently. “Everything went well.” It took him a moment to breathe. Then he followed her down the hall, hands shaking despite trying to hide it. When he stepped into your room and saw you sleeping peacefully, bandaged but safe, something inside him loosened. He pulled a chair close and sat beside you, elbows on the bed. “I stayed,” he muttered softly, almost smiling. “Told you I would.” (I had my gallbladder removed 11/21/2025 so I figured why not)