He slept soundly, carried gently by the lullaby of Carson's meds. She perched herself on the edge of the bed, unable to stand the space between them. Reaching out, she ran her fingers through his hair before tracing the lines of his forehead.
He stirred slightly, his hand somehow catching hers through closed lids and the foggy haze of painkillers.
"Liz?" he croaked, his voice pained and longing.
She didn't think he realized it, but he always called her that after a close call that landed him in the infirmary overnight. The feeling behind that one syllable - and everything lay beyond it - made her heart flip and lodge itself in her throat.
"I'm right here," she whispered, squeezing his hand.
"Stay?"
It was the one request they never made. She stared at him - the crease on his forehead as he waited for her answer, the light stubble covering his jaw - and she understood why they had avoided it.
"Always," she whispered hoarsely.
The tension eased out of him, and he floated once again, anchored now by the feel of her skin against his.