When Aria finally peeled her eyes open, the first thing she noticed was that the sterile, antiseptic smell of the clinic had been replaced by the rich, savory aroma of roasted coffee and… was that bacon?
She sat up, wincing as her stiff muscles protested the movement. The events of the last twenty-four hours felt like a fever dream. But the heavy warmth of the duvet tucked securely around her shoulders was real, and so was the empty space beside her where Damien had been lying.
"You're awake," a deep voice rumbled from the corner of the suite.
Aria turned to see Damien sitting in a plush armchair by the window, bathed in the soft morning light. He was fully dressed in fresh clothes—a charcoal turtleneck and dark trousers that made him look less like a patient and more like a minimalist villain relaxing in his lair. He held a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and looking at him, it was hard to believe he had been seizing on a gurney just hours ago.
