Light.
Too bright.
Too sharp.
Burning against his vision, forcing his eyelids to flutter open—only to slam shut again when the glare became too much.
His body hurt.
Not the usual kind of pain—not the kind that faded after a few moments, not the kind he could shake off with a dumb joke and a grin.
No—this was different.
This was deep.
Heavy.
Unrelenting.
Everything felt wrong.
He tried to move—barely.
His fingers twitched, but that was all.
Tried to speak—failed.
His throat was dry, his breath shallow, his voice nonexistent.
A weak hum of electricity flickered beneath his skin—barely there, barely alive—but even that felt foreign.
Too dim.
Too distant.
Pain swelled through his chest, through his stomach, spreading like fire beneath the layers of bandages he could barely feel.
This was bad.
Really bad.
He blinked—slowly, forcing his eyes to adjust—trying to focus on the sterile white ceiling, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, the faint shuffle of movement nearby.
Someone was there.
Someone close.
But Denki?
Denki couldn't do a damn thing to acknowledge them.
And that realization hit him harder than any attack ever had.
Jiro.
Denki's vision was blurry, his body heavy, but the moment his gaze sharpened just enough, he knew.
He knew who was beside him.
Knew who was gripping his hand like she refused to let go.
Knew who had been waiting—terrified, furious, desperate.
Jiro.
His breath hitched—weak, strained, barely more than a whisper—but it was there.
Life.
Not much.
Not strong.
But there.
Because she was here.
Because she was crying, and it made his chest ache—not just from the pain in his body but from the sheer weight of seeing her like this.
Jiro—sharp, steady, stubborn Jiro—was falling apart right in front of him.
And Denki?
Denki didn't know if he could move yet.
Didn't know if he could speak yet.
But he knew—
Knew—
That the second he could, the second his voice worked, the second his fingers found enough strength—
He was going to tell her he's still here.
Because no matter how much pain he was in, no matter how weak he felt, no matter how close he had come to losing everything—
She had saved him.
Just by being here.
(Jiro POV)
"Jiro."
Barely a whisper.
Barely there.
But the moment it left his lips, the world stopped.
Jiro froze, her breath hitching, her fingers tightening around his hospital gown like she needed to ground herself in the reality that—
He was awake.
Her vision blurred, tears spilling down her cheeks, hot and relentless.
She didn't hold back—didn't care that her walls had cracked wide open, didn't care that she was breaking apart in front of everyone.
Because Denki—Denki Kaminari, reckless, stupid, wonderful Denki—had just said her name.
And then—
He laughed.
Weak. Raw. Strained.
Barely above a breath.
But hers.
Jiro choked on a sob, gripping him tighter, burying her face in his shoulder because she missed it—
She missed his laughter so much.
Missed the way his voice lit up a room, missed the way he could turn fear into humor, missed him—
And then—
He laughed.
Weak. Raw. Strained.
Barely above a breath.
But hers.
Jiro choked on a sob, gripping him tighter, burying her face in his shoulder because she missed it—
She missed his laughter so much.
Missed the way his voice lit up a room, the way his energy crackled like electricity in the air, the way he could turn fear into humor without even trying.
Missed him.
Missed Denki.
The real Denki.
The one who never stopped talking, never stopped joking, never stopped moving.
And now—
Now, his voice was fragile.
Like a candle flickering against the wind.
Like if she let go, if she moved too fast, it would snuff out completely.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing herself closer, letting his warmth remind her
He was still here.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
Jiro's fingers curled into the fabric of his hospital gown, gripping harder, grounding herself in the rise and fall of his chest, the faint hum of his breath, the undeniable proof that he hadn't left her.
She had spent too long staring at monitors, too long listening to hurried medical updates, too long drowning in silence that wasn't supposed to be there.
But now—
Now, she had this.
His laughter.
Cracked.
Tired.
Barely alive.
But alive nonetheless.
Her throat tightened, another choked sob threatening to break free.
She had almost lost him.
Had almost lost him.
And just the thought alone sent another tremor through her hands, another wave of grief and relief crashing into her chest, knocking the breath right out of her.
Denki shifted—slow, sluggish, too weak—but his fingers twitched against hers.
And when she finally pulled back enough to look at him, his eyes were open.
Dim.
Tired.
But smiling.
And that—
That was enough to make her crumble all over again.
And Jiro—Jiro wasn't going to let go.
Not now.
Not ever.
(Denki POV)
Denki's world was slow, heavy, drenched in exhaustion—but none of it mattered.
Because Jiro was here.
Her eyes were red—exhausted, swollen, reflecting too many sleepless nights and too many tears shed over him. But to Denki, they were still beautiful. Still sharp. Still full of the fire he adored—the fire that had always drawn him to her, that had made him fall for her long before he could admit it.
Her lashes clumped together from the weight of her tears, framing those deep, expressive eyes—ones that had glared at him, laughed with him, softened for him. And now, they were staring at him like he was the most important thing in the world.
Her hair was a mess, strands tangled and wild, some sticking to her damp cheeks, others falling into her eyes—but he loved it like this. Loved the way it framed her face, loved that it was untamed, loved that it was hers.
She was raw, unfiltered, breaking apart in front of him—but Denki had never seen her more breathtaking.
Because she was here.
She was his.
And he loved her.
Denki pushes past the pain.
Ignores the aching in his muscles.
Lifts his hand, shaky, weak, struggling—but determined.
His fingers brushed against her cheek—soft, tentative, barely there—but real.
Her skin was warm beneath his touch, delicate yet familiar, like the quiet hum of electricity settling against his fingertips. He could feel the faint dampness left behind by her tears, the way her breath hitched as his hand lingered.
She felt alive.
The smoothness of her skin contrasted with the tremble in her body, the slight quiver that told him just how deeply she had been shaken. He traced the curve of her cheek with slow, uneven movements, absorbing every detail—every slight warmth, every subtle pulse of life beneath his touch, every silent emotion she wasn't saying but was written all over her face.
Denki's lips curled into something small, something barely strong enough to call a smile, but it was there.
"You're okay," he murmured, voice hoarse, strained, fragile.
Jiro choked on a breath, leaning into his touch like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Denki wiped away a tear—slowly, carefully—his movements weak, shaky, but intentional.
The effort drained him.
Everything hurt.
But he needed to touch her.
Needed to remind himself that this wasn't a dream.
That she was here.
That despite everything, he had saved her.
And that—that alone—made it all worth it.
Jiro felt everything.
The exhaustion.
The relief.
The unbearable weight of the last few days crashing over her like a tidal wave she wasn't ready for.
Denki had reached for her.
Had touched her—weak, barely holding on, but real.
He had wiped away her tears, had smiled, had spoken her name like it was the only thing that mattered.
And that—that alone—was enough to shatter her.
She collapsed against him, gripping his hand like she was afraid to let go, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, letting everything fall apart now—because now, finally, he was awake.
Now, she could break.
"I thought I lost you," she whispered, voice cracking.
Denki didn't answer—not really.
Didn't have the strength.
But his fingers curled weakly around hers, his touch light, fragile, but comforting.
She choked on a breath, gripping his hand tighter, holding onto him like she needed prof he was still here.
"You scared me, idiot."
Denki's chest rose slowly, his breathing too weak, but his expression softened—tired, drained, but undeniably Denki.
His lips curled just slightly.
"Sorry."
It was barely a whisper, barely there, but Jiro felt it deep in her chest. Denki POV
Jiro didn't let go.
Even as her breath hitched, even as her tears kept falling, even as her grip on his shaky, weak fingers tightened—she didn't let go.
And Denki—Denki felt it.
The weight of her fear.
The exhaustion buried beneath her relief.
The way she held onto him, like she was scared he'd disappear if she loosened her grip even a little.
Denki swallowed—slowly, carefully—his throat dry, his body aching, but his heart full.
He had scared her.
Had almost left her.
Had fought so damn hard to get to her—only to end up here, barely breathing, barely awake, barely able to move.
And yet—
Jiro was here.
Holding him.
Crying for him.
And Denki—Denki had to tell her.
Had to make sure she knew.
Had to make sure she understood that even if he felt like hell, even if his body screamed at him to rest—
He was still here.
Denki exhaled—weak, strained—but real.
And then, with all the strength he could gather, he whispered—
"Told you I wouldn't leave."
Jiro let out a broken laugh, gripping his hand even tighter, her forehead pressing against his shoulder—like she needed to physically feel that he was really, truly still alive.
And Denki?
Denki let her.
Because after everything, after the pain, the fight, the uncertainty—
She needed him.
And he needed her too.