It washer.
It wasn’t a place.
It wasn’t a job.
Or even the Familia.
It was her.
A tear tracked down over his cheek, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He leaned closer and laid his forehead against her hand.
Please, little bird.
“Please come back to me, little bird,” he whispered.
But there was no reply.
Late into the night. Till the nurses switched and he was supposed to be at home sleeping.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t leave.
He wouldn’t leave her.
I’m here, little bird.
The sun started to peek around the edges of the curtains, when he felt the first fluttering in her hand.
He was leaning over, his head still on her hand, the movement jolting his half-asleep brain. Quickly he sat up, his heart in his throat. That hole in his chest burning.
“Winter?” he whispered raggedly.
“Mmm.” She hummed, her eyes cracking open as she blinked, till she seemed to get a grip and her gaze centered on him. The grey of her eyes so light, the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen.
“Thank god,” he muttered, losing the battle with his tears. Reaching up as he cradled her head, leaning over her, his lips at hers their breath mingling.
“I love you,” she croaked out, her voice still ragged from the smoke.
“I love you too, little bird.”
His home.
“So do you think this is connected to you or her?” Branson said from his chair across the room.
