The room is quiet except for the hum of the machines and the soft scratching of Calian's pencil against paper. I should probably be tired by now, but my brain's doing its usual thing — running a marathon while my body's on life support.

I'm giggling before I even realize it.

Calian glances up from his sketchbook, one brow raised. "What?"

I shake my head quickly, covering my mouth with my hand, still laughing. "Nothing. Ignore me."

"Impossible," he mutters, deadpan.

I grin, shoulders shaking. "Fine, fine. You really wanna know?"

He tilts his head, cautious but curious. "I asked, didn't I?"

I lean back against my pillow, still grinning like an idiot. "I was just imagining what it'd be like if I ever, y'know... had sex with someone."

His pencil stops mid-line.

"Excuse me?"

I can't help it — I burst out laughing. "I'm serious! My heart can't even handle walking up a flight of stairs! I'd die right then and there! The poor guy would be traumatized — imagine explaining that to the doctors. 'Hi, yes, she flatlined mid-kiss, please don't arrest me.'"

Calian stares at me like he's witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. "You are not normal."

"I never claimed to be!" I giggle. "Honestly, it'd make national news. 'Woman Dies of Too Much Passion.'"

He groans, dragging a hand down his face, but there's a hint of laughter under it — quiet, but there. "You have the darkest sense of humor."

"I have to! It's cheaper than therapy."

That earns a real laugh — soft and breathy, but it's there. He shakes his head, eyes lingering on me just a second too long. "You don't have to make everything a joke, you know."

I shrug. "Yeah, but if I didn't, I'd probably cry. And crying's overrated."

There's a pause. One of those rare, fragile silences that feels like it means something. He looks back at his sketchbook, thumb brushing the edge of the page — and then, out of nowhere, he says quietly,
"The right person would understand your needs."

I blink. "Huh?"

His voice stays low, careful. "He'd be gentle. He'd know how to love you... gently."

I go quiet. The laugh that was halfway out of my chest turns into something smaller, warmer. I stare at him — at the faint blush creeping up his neck, the way he doesn't even realize what he just said.

"Wow," I whisper. "Did you just say something romantic?"

He looks up, startled. "No."

I grin. "You totally did."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes, you did." I can't stop smiling. "You meant it exactly like that."

He exhales through his nose, muttering, "You're impossible."

"And you're secretly a softie," I tease. "It's fine. Your secret's safe with me."

He shakes his head, but I can see it — the smallest, shyest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, the air between us changes again.
It's still quiet, still gentle... but now it feels alive.

I glance down at my blanket, tracing the seam with my finger. "You know," I say softly, "I think if someone ever did love me like that, I'd probably survive just fine."

He hums. "I think so too."

And for the first time, I believe him.

Calian's still red-eared from the whole gentle love comment. I, on the other hand, am still stuck on the idea of dying from passion.

"I'm serious though," I say, half-laughing, half-wheezing. "It'd be a crime scene! The nurses would find me and be like, 'well, she went out doing what she loved—overdoing it.'"

He closes his sketchbook with a thump. "What is wrong with you?"

"Probably a lot!" I chirp. "Heart, brain, impulse control—you name it. I'm a limited-edition mess."

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. "You cannot keep talking about dying during—"

"—passion? Oh, but I can!" I grin. "Because my brain's like a pinball machine, and if I don't say the thoughts, they bounce around until I explode. You wouldn't like me mid-explosion. I'd probably sparkle."

He gives me a look somewhere between horror and fascination. "You actually can't stop, can you?"

"Nope!" I pop the 'p.' "It's like—okay, imagine all your thoughts are in little boxes. Mine are fireworks. They don't wait for permission. They just boom! right out my mouth."

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile. "You're describing a medical emergency."

"I am a medical emergency," I say proudly. "That's my whole aesthetic."

He shakes his head, laughing quietly despite himself. "You're unbelievable."

"I know! But admit it—life would be boring without me. Someone's gotta fill the silence you keep making."

"I don't make silence," he says.

"You are silence," I shoot back, grinning. "You're like... a beautifully brooding painting, and I'm a glitter cannon."

He sighs, but he's smiling now, the kind that tries not to show but can't quite hide. "You're exhausting."

"I prefer invigorating."

"Loud," he says.

"Alive," I correct.

For a second, neither of us says anything. The room hums. My pulse slows. The air between us feels easy again—his calm soaking up my chaos like balance.

Then, because quiet is unbearable to me, I blurt, "You think anyone's ever died mid-kiss?"

He drops his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

I laugh so hard my chest hurts. "See? You'd miss me if I shut up."

He peeks at me through his fingers, shaking his head but smiling all the same. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm real," I say simply. "This is me letting the noise out so it doesn't eat me alive."

He studies me for a moment, and the humor in his eyes softens into something gentler. "Then don't stop," he says quietly. "Just maybe... don't aim the noise directly at my heart next time."

I gasp dramatically. "You have a heart!"

He smirks. "Don't tell anyone."

I laugh again, loud and bright, and for the first time that night, he doesn't flinch at the sound.