The ICU does not sleep, though the lights dim slightly at night in an attempt to suggest rest. Nothing truly pauses. Machines continue their measured rhythm. Monitors blink steadily. A ventilator breathes with unwavering consistency. Nurses move in and out with quiet efficiency, checking lines, adjusting medication, recording numbers that will later be interpreted by people who are not present now.
Zane stays in the chair beside Willow's bed.
He does not ask about breaks or food. When a nurse suggests he step out to rest, he shakes his head once, and the conversation ends there. His jacket remains on. His shoes stay where they are. He does not sit back or stretch out. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, close enough that if she were awake she would feel his presence without needing to see him.
