It was deep into the night when Izana woke.
The room was dim, washed in pale moonlight that stretched across the white sheets in quiet silver lines. The steady beeping of the monitor filled the silence, rhythmic and almost too calm.
For a moment, he didn't move.
His body felt distant from him. Heavy. Bruised. Weak in a way he despised.
He shifted slightly.
Pain flared immediately through his ribs.
"…Ngh."
Even breathing too deeply hurt.
He turned his head slowly.
And then he saw her.
Leah.
She had fallen asleep again.
Her head rested against the edge of the mattress near his arm, her cheek pressed lightly into the sheet. Her hair spilled loosely across the bed, slightly tangled from exhaustion. One of her hands was curled near him, fingers barely brushing the fabric of his blanket.
She looked… smaller like this.
Not guarded.
Not stubborn.
Just tired.
He studied her quietly.
"You're still here…" he murmured hoarsely.
His voice barely carried in the room.
She didn't stir.
His gaze drifted downward.
Her shoulder.
Even in sleep, her arm was drawn inward slightly — protective. Careful.
He remembered the sharp wince from earlier.
The way she denied it so quickly.
"You're in pain."
"I'm not."
A lie.
A terrible one.
His jaw tightened.
He had let it go.
Because she asked him to.
Because she refused.
Because he told her he wouldn't push.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"…You're stubborn," he muttered softly.
A faint pause.
"But you don't hide pain well."
He shifted again, slowly forcing himself upright.
Pain tore through his side.
His breath hitched sharply.
He froze, gripping the sheets until the dizziness passed.
His body trembled faintly from the effort.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath.
Still weak.
Still recovering.
Still unable to move without effort.
His gaze returned to her shoulder.
He could leave it.
He should leave it.
You promised.
His fingers curled slightly against the mattress.
He watched her for several seconds.
She had stayed beside him without sleep.
Without treatment.
Without rest.
He swallowed.
"…You didn't even think about yourself," he murmured.
Silence.
The monitor continued its steady rhythm.
His hand lifted slowly — hesitating in midair.
"You'll be angry," he whispered.
He knew that.
He understood it clearly.
But—
"If it's worse than you're pretending…"
His voice trailed off.
His fingers hovered over the fabric of her shirt.
"You don't get to decide everything alone," he muttered quietly.
Then softer—
"…Even if you want to."
He exhaled slowly.
"…Just to check."
His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her shirt carefully, gently lifting the fabric at the back.
He moved slowly enough that even the air barely shifted.
The fabric rose.
Moonlight touched her skin.
And he froze.
Long.
Thick.
Scars.
Layered across her back.
Old wounds carved into pale skin.
His breath stopped completely.
"…What…?"
The word barely escaped him.
His chest tightened — and this time it wasn't from injury.
His hand trembled faintly in midair.
They weren't recent.
They weren't from the warehouse.
They weren't accidental.
They were deliberate.
He felt something dark stir in his chest.
Anger.
Cold and sharp.
But beneath it—
Pain.
"…Who did this to you?" he whispered.
His voice was unsteady.
She didn't stir.
She didn't answer.
Of course she didn't.
His jaw tightened.
"You hid this."
Not accusation.
Just disbelief.
He swallowed hard.
His gaze slowly lowered further.
And there—
The bruises from the warehouse.
Darkened. Swollen. Fresh against old scars.
His fingers curled slightly.
"You were hurt… on top of this."
His voice dropped lower.
"You still sat here."
He closed his eyes briefly.
A tightness pressed painfully against his chest.
"You idiot," he murmured softly.
But there was no irritation in it.
Only something fragile.
His hand hovered again.
He reached toward the bedside table slowly, his movements weaker now.
The ointment the doctor had left for him was still there.
He stared at it.
You promised.
His hand paused midair.
His jaw clenched.
"…I know," he whispered.
The admission was quiet. Honest.
"I said I wouldn't."
He picked it up anyway.
"I'm sorry."
The apology was barely audible.
He dipped his fingers into the ointment, then turned back to her shoulder.
His touch was careful.
Gentle.
He applied the ointment lightly over the bruised areas only, avoiding the scars completely.
His fingers trembled slightly as they moved.
"You don't even let anyone see you bleed," he murmured.
She stirred faintly.
He froze instantly.
His breath stopped.
But she only shifted slightly, her head pressing more comfortably against the mattress.
He exhaled quietly.
"…You're terrible at taking care of yourself."
His voice softened further.
"And you stayed here… instead."
He continued carefully, spreading the ointment slowly.
His thumb brushed near one of the scars unintentionally.
He pulled back immediately.
As if burned.
"…I won't ask," he murmured quietly.
The words were soft.
"I won't force you to tell me."
A pause.
"But don't carry it alone."
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
He wasn't used to saying things like that.
He finished applying the ointment.
Then gently lowered her shirt back into place.
His hand lingered over her shoulder for a moment — not touching — just hovering.
"…Rest," he whispered.
He leaned back slowly against his pillow.
His breathing had grown uneven again from sitting upright so long.
His ribs throbbed.
His muscles trembled faintly.
But he didn't close his eyes immediately.
He just watched her.
"You'll hate me in the morning," he murmured quietly.
A faint, tired exhale left him.
"…But I'd do it again."
Not out of control.
Not out of entitlement.
Just worry.
His gaze softened.
And eventually, exhaustion dragged him back into uneasy sleep.
Morning came quietly.
Leah stirred first.
Her neck ached from sleeping awkwardly. Her shoulder throbbed faintly — but something felt… different.
Cooler.
Less stiff.
Her eyes opened slowly.
Izana was already awake.
He was staring at the ceiling.
Not moving.
She pushed herself upright carefully.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked, voice still soft with sleep.
"A while."
She blinked the rest of the sleep from her eyes.
Then she shifted her shoulder slightly.
And paused.
Her fingers moved instinctively to the back of it.
There was a faint slickness beneath the fabric.
Her breath stilled.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Her eyes met his under the blindfold.
He didn't look away.
Her expression changed instantly.
"You did."
It wasn't a question.
Silence.
"You looked."
His jaw tightened faintly.
"Yes."
The word hit like a crack in glass.
"You promised you wouldn't."
"I know."
Her voice sharpened.
"You said you wouldn't argue. You said you wouldn't look."
"You were hurt."
"That wasn't your decision!"
Her volume rose slightly.
He pushed himself upright again despite the protest of his body.
"You didn't treat it."
"That's not an excuse!"
"You were in pain."
"And that gives you the right to ignore what I said?"
His hands clenched slightly in the sheets.
"I wasn't trying to disrespect you."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was trying to help."
Her eyes flashed.
"By going behind my back?"
The words landed harder than she intended.
But she didn't take them back.
He flinched slightly — not physically, but internally.
"I saw the bruises," he said quietly.
Her expression faltered.
"And the scars."
Silence crashed into the room.
Her face drained of color.
"You had no right," she said, voice lower now.
"I know."
"You don't get to decide when I'm vulnerable."
"I wasn't trying to—. "
"You said you wouldn't."
The repetition cut deeper than anything else.
He swallowed.
"I was scared," he admitted.
She laughed once — bitter.
"Scared?"
"When I saw how you moved. When you winced. When you wouldn't let anyone near it."
He looked at her directly.
"I couldn't ignore it."
Her breathing grew uneven.
"That wasn't your choice to make."
"I was worried about you."
"That doesn't mean you can cross boundaries whenever you want!"
Silence.
The monitor beeped steadily between them.
"I just wanted to help," he said quietly.
Her jaw tightened.
"I didn't ask for help."
The words stung.
He went still.
She took a step back.
Then another.
"I need space."
"Leah—."
But she had already turned.
She walked toward the door.
Her hand trembled slightly on the handle.
"You don't get to decide when I'm ready," she said without looking back.
And then she left.
The door closed with a soft but final sound.
Izana remained sitting upright in the bed.
The room felt colder instantly.
He stared at the door for a long time.
His chest felt tight again — but not from injury.
He had only wanted to help.
Only wanted to ease her pain.
But instead—
He had hurt her.
Again.
And this time, there was no hand resting over his heart.
Only silence.