Leah only realized something was wrong when her fingers felt warmth.
At first, she thought it was just the lingering heat of his skin.
Izana had always run warm—like he carried something feverish inside him, something that refused to cool. Even now, standing in her room in the dim light, his presence felt overwhelming. Heavy. Close.
But this warmth was different.
It was wet.
Slowly, she pulled her hand back.
Red.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Izana…?"
He blinked beneath the white blindfold, the fabric shifting slightly as his unfocused gaze turned toward her voice. He could see shapes through it—blurs of light and shadow—but not clearly. Still, he found her without fail.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
"You're bleeding."
For a moment, he didn't react. As if the word itself hadn't reached him.
Then he glanced down.
The dark stain spreading across his clothes was unmistakable now. It soaked through the fabric at his side, creeping outward, dripping steadily onto her bedroom floor.
"…It's nothing," he said at last.
Leah stared at him.
"It's not nothing," she snapped, sharper than she intended. "Your stitches opened."
He swayed slightly where he stood.
The movement was small—barely noticeable—but Leah saw it. Instinctively, she stepped forward and caught his arm. His body felt lighter than it should. Unsteady. The strength he always carried so arrogantly seemed thinner now, stretched to its limits.
"I'll have someone look at it later," he murmured.
"Later?" Her voice rose despite herself. "You're dripping blood on the floor."
He stiffened at that.
Not in anger.
In stubbornness.
His fingers curled faintly at his side.
"I don't want to leave you again."
The words were soft.
Barely above a whisper.
Leah froze.
He continued, slower now. Each breath heavier than the last.
"If I walk out that door… you might close it again."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"You idiot," she whispered.
But there was no heat in it.
She looked at the blood soaking through his side. The way he was trying to stand straight despite the tremor in his knees. The pride still clinging to him like armor, even while his body betrayed him.
Arguing wouldn't work.
So she changed tactics.
"Fine," she said firmly. "Then you're not leaving."
He tilted his head slightly, as if unsure he heard her correctly.
"You're staying right here," she clarified.
She guided him toward the bed. This time, he didn't resist. The moment he lowered himself onto the mattress, his shoulders sagged in a way she had never seen before. As if something inside him had finally allowed itself to rest.
"Don't move," she ordered.
A faint breath of amusement left him. "Bossy."
"Quiet."
She moved quickly, gathering clean cloth, fresh bandages, and a basin of water from the ensuite bathroom. Her hands didn't shake. Her breathing was steady now—measured.
Controlled.
When she returned, he was watching her.
Even through the blindfold, she felt it.
"You're staring," she muttered.
"I'm listening," he corrected softly.
She knelt in front of him.
Carefully, she removed the outer layer of his clothing, peeling back the blood-soaked bandages. The metallic scent filled the air, sharp and familiar.
Her jaw tightened.
"You walked here like this?"
"Yes."
"From the medical room?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He didn't hesitate.
"I needed to see you."
Her hands paused for half a second.
Then continued.
She dipped the cloth into the basin and began cleaning the wound. The reopened stitches had loosened from strain. Some threads had snapped entirely.
He inhaled sharply.
She froze immediately.
"Does it hurt?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
Silence fell between them.
He seemed… startled.
As if the concept itself confused him.
She resumed cleaning, movements precise and practiced. She pressed gently to stop the bleeding, adjusted the tension of the remaining stitches, and rewrapped the wound carefully, making sure the pressure was firm but not suffocating.
Izana was quiet for a long moment.
Then, softly—
"You've done this before."
Her hands stilled for the briefest second.
"Anyone can learn."
"That wasn't a guess."
She didn't look at him.
"You didn't hesitate," he continued. "You knew exactly how tight to pull. Exactly where to press."
Her grip tightened slightly on the bandage.
He understood.
Not fully.
But enough.
The skill.
The control.
The scars he had seen etched across her back and shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately.
There was no accusation in his tone. No demand.
"I shouldn't have asked."
She finished tying the bandage before responding.
"It's fine."
But it wasn't.
He lowered his head slightly.
"I won't ask again."
Her eyes flickered toward him.
"I'll wait," he added quietly. "Until you're ready."
That did something to her chest.
A small crack.
After a moment, she whispered, "Thank you."
He leaned back slowly against her pillows. Now that the adrenaline had faded, exhaustion consumed him completely. His movements were sluggish, heavy.
"You scared me," she admitted before she could stop herself.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You opened the door."
She huffed softly, blinking away the sting behind her eyes.
"You're impossible."
"And you still let me stay."
She didn't deny it.
He shifted carefully, lying back fully now. His black hair spilled against the pale pillowcase, stark against the white.
His hand moved almost absentmindedly, brushing against hers.
Then his fingers curled around them.
Holding on.
As if afraid she might disappear if he let go.
"I don't want to go back," he murmured, voice already fading.
"You're not," she replied.
He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment.
His breathing gradually evened out.
Leah stayed where she was, sitting beside him. She watched the rise and fall of his chest. Watched the tension drain from his features as sleep claimed him.
Without the pride.
Without the cold composure.
Without the calculating sharpness he wore like a second skin—
He looked younger.
Almost fragile.
Her fingers moved gently, brushing a strand of black hair from his forehead. He stirred faintly but didn't wake.
"You don't have to walk alone anymore," she whispered.
He didn't hear her.
But his grip on her hand tightened slightly in his sleep.
She hesitated only a moment before shifting carefully, climbing onto the bed beside him. She didn't mean to—at least, that's what she told herself. She only meant to sit closer.
But exhaustion crept up on her too.
Carefully, she lay beside him, her head resting lightly against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear. Strong, despite everything.
For a long time, she just listened to it.
Alive.
He was alive.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
"You're reckless," she murmured faintly.
A drowsy sound left him—half asleep.
"…Only for you."
Her breath hitched.
"You're not even awake."
"Still true."
Her cheeks warmed, though he couldn't see it clearly through the blindfold.
"Sleep," she whispered.