forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !
⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!
⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.
⟢ word count. 13.7k+
⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this
You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.
A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.
And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.
But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.
And yet—
There’s something missing.
It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.
You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?
You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.
And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.
You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.
You haven’t even been working for three years.
And yet—
You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.
The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.
“Look what I made!”
You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.
Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.
She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.
“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.
Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.
Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.
“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.
You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.
A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.
Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.
A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.
You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.
“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.
“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.
“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.
“Yeah?”
“Yes!”
She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—
“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”
You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”
Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.
“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”
“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”
You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”
Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.
“The Falcon.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.
Because for Maria, it’s admiration.
For you, it’s something else entirely.
“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”
Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.
Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.
“Here.”
You glance down.
The bird.
You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.
“You have it.”
You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.
“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.
You still have the bird.
It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.
You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.
It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.
And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.
Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.
You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.
And then you saw it.
The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.
Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.
His skin was pale—too pale.
His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.
The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.
“Heart palpitations—“
“Severe burns—“
“Broken arm—“
“Breath is weak—“
“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“
“Won’t make it to the OR—“
Your heart stuttered.
You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.
And after that, you were moving on autopilot.
The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.
One hour turned to two.
Two turned to four.
Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.
You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.
“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”
You froze.
The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.
You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.
And now?
Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?
Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.
The surgeon calling out the time of death.
Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.
Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Your eyes locked onto the glass.
And then—
“Clear!”
Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.
From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.
“Clear!”
His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.
You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.
The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.
But it didn’t feel like him.
He looked dead.
He looked so, so dead.
Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.
And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.
He was so alive, and he was crying.
His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.
His skin burned beneath your fingertips.
Like home.
But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.
The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.
And then he pulled away.
It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.
But neither of you moved.
His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.
The metal slipped from your skin.
The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.
Your breath stilled.
He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.
And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.
You tasted the salt of tears.
Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.
You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.
But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.
He was the first to move.
The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.
Then, finally, painfully, he let go.
That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.
He was alive then. And so were you.
But when the door shut, a part of you had died.
And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.
It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.
Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.
You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.
You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.
Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”
“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.
“Were you working?”
You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”
Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”
You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.
You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.
“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”
Do you?
You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.
You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.
“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.
“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”
Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”
You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”
Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.
“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.
You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.
The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.
He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.
And even then, he stays put.
So do you.
It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.
Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.
You don’t say anything either.
Because you don’t need to.
For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.
You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.
You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.
You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.
By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.
You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.
Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.
But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.
You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.
She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.
You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.
“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.
“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”
That makes you pause.
You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.
“Oh?”
Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”
You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.
Captain Joaquín Torres.
The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.
You freeze.
Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.
Your stomach turns.
“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”
Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”
“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”
“I know.”
That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.
You stare at her, trying to process the words.
“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”
Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.
“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”
She’s right. You know she’s right.
But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.
And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.
Would he even want to wake up to you?
You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”
Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”
You wish you believed her.
You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.
Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.
He might wake up anytime.
Your stomach twists.
The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.
The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.
You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.
You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.
He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.
Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.
You press your lips together and push the door open.
The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.
Your eyes find him instantly.
He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.
There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.
Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.
You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.
You hesitate before touching him.
Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.
Too gentle.
You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.
You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.
When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.
You don’t leave right away.
You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.
Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.
With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.
This is just a job.
And you have work to do.
The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.
Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.
Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.
You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.
You aren’t ready to face them.
You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.
So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.
But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.
The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.
The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.
His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.
A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.
Sam visits often.
He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.
He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.
You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.
Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.
Instead, you go through the motions.
His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.
You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.
The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.
The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.
It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.
But warmth can be deceptive.
Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.
And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.
One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.
The heart monitor.
The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.
You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.
Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.
But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.
This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.
You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?
Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.
And then it hits you.
He feels it.
He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.
Your chest tightens.
This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.
You should be relieved.
But you’re not.
Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.
What if the first thing he sees is you?
What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?
What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?
Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.
But it never comes.
His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.
Your hands feel cold.
You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.
You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.
“¡Mija!”
Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.
“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.
You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.
When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.
“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.
“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.
She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”
And then she stops. Really looks at you.
Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.
“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.
You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.
But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.
You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.
"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"
"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.
And then she smacks your arm.
"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"
You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.
"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"
Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."
Your mouth goes dry.
Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.
Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.
You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.
"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."
Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.
"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.
Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.
The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.
You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.
It’s too much.
Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.
"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."
"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.
"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."
Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.
But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.
And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.
You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.
You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.
Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.
There’s no time to process this right now.
But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.
Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.
You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.
But today is special. It’s her birthday.
She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.
Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.
Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.
She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.
"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.
Maria gasps. "Really?"
"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."
Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."
You smile. "Yeah, they are."
For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.
It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.
She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."
"Are you sure?"
She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."
"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.
The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.
She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.
Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.
Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.
Her mouth falls open.
"The Falcon?!"
Your stomach drops.
"Maria—"
"The Falcon is here?!"
Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—
Torres, Joaquín
Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."
"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.
"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"
You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."
"Can I go say hi?"
"No."
"It’s my birthday."
"Maria—"
"Please!"
You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.
This was not in your job description.
You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—
But then you look at Maria.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.
And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.
He always has.
You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.
It feels like something he would want.
And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.
Still, you hesitate.
You’re comfortable taking care of him now.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.
Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.
But he’s also impossibly far.
No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.
For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.
But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.
"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"
She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."
Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.
Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.
You don’t blame her.
Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.
You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.
Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.
You blink, glancing at her. "What?"
She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.
“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.
Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"
She nods seriously.
There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.
You know that feeling.
Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.
Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.
There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.
Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.
The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.
You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.
Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.
"I think he’s gonna be okay."
You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."
It’s enough. For now.
Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.
Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.
Your heart stutters.
A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.
Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.
Even though it could be everything.
You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.
You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.
But then—
A sound.
Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.
Your name.
Spoken.
Maria gasps softly.
And you—you freeze.
The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.
Did you imagine it?
You must have.
But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.
Because she heard it too.
Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.
And it came from him.
Joaquín.
The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.
That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.
But it’s not.
Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.
His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.
Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.
Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.
For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.
Then, he moves.
His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.
His gaze shifts—and lands on you.
The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.
A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.
His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.
Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.
"Me morí."
The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.
"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."
His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.
Your heart lurches.
You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.
"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."
Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.
His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.
"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"
His gaze snaps back to you.
Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.
His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.
His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.
Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.
"Hi."
Your breath catches.
Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.
"Hi," you whisper back.
His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.
Like he’s afraid you might disappear.
"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.
"Hi, Joaquín."
A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.
Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.
The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.
A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.
It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.
"You gotta stop scaring me like this."
"I’m trying, I swear."
You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.
And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.
Only this time he can't kiss you.
Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.
You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.
Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.
"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."
The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.
A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.
"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"
Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.
There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.
You don’t give yourself time to process it.
Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.
Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.
You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.
The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.
The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.
"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.
She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.
You get it.
She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.
It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.
It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:
“He’s awake. Now what?”
Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.
And then you’re alone.
For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.
Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.
You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.
Your eyes sting.
Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.
He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.
You should feel relief. You should feel something good.
And yet.
It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.
Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.
He can react to what you say, to what you do.
Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.
And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.
You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.
The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.
Shit.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.
Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.
Then you force yourself to step inside.
The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.
The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.
Joaquín is watching you.
His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.
You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.
You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.
"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."
You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.
Still, you feel it.
The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.
You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.
You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.
The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.
His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.
Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.
"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.
"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."
"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.
She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."
Then she turns to you.
"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."
You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.
"Thanks."
"I’ll come back later for a check-up."
And then she leaves.
The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.
You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.
But that’s not what’s stopping you.
It’s him.
Awake. Looking at you.
Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.
His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.
"You took care of me?"
Your breath catches.
It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.
You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.
He’s here.
Breathing. Talking. Alive.
And yet—his dead face still haunts you.
The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.
The tears in his mother’s face.
The look of dread on Sam.
The guilt.
"Uh, yeah. I did."
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.
It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.
Still, he tries.
And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.
"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."
Right. Your job.
The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.
Because you remember the last time he said that to you.
Your last fight.
Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?
Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.
It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.
You had barely been sleeping.
Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.
And Joaquín?
He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.
You tried to make it work. God, you tried.
You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.
At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.
But that day never came.
Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.
The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.
"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."
You had whispered it.
Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.
He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.
Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.
"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.
And that had been the worst part.
Because love wasn’t the problem.
It had never been the problem.
It was everything else.
Your job. His job.
The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.
And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."
Like that was supposed to make it better.
But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.
"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.
Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.
But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.
His brow creases. "How bad was it?"
You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."
His lips part. "Right."
"It was pretty fucking bad."
A beat.
"Right."
You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.
You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."
The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.
Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.
"I died?"
You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.
"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."
He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.
What it means to you.
"Oh."
You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."
Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.
In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.
Maybe you’d both be married to other people.
The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.
"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"
"No."
You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.
But if he really wants something, he can call you.
You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.
"Can you stay?"
You linger because you didn’t expect it.
Because you kind of hoped he would ask.
Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.
"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."
You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.
His eyes are pleading.
It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.
You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.
You sink into the chair slowly.
A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.
Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.
He exhales.
"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.
You blink, caught off guard.
"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Not really."
A beat.
"Nightmares?"
"Something like that."
"Something on your mind?"
"Lots on my mind."
The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.
The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.
You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.
Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.
"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"
"I'm always worried about you."
You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.
His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.
You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.
"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"
"I miss you."
Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"
"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."
You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”
"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."
You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."
"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.
"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.
Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”
Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.
“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”
"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.
He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.
"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."
"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.
“I know, I do too,” you admit,
“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.
"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”
“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.
You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.
"Will you still be here?"
You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"
His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
