Two days.
Leah had not left his side for two days.
The medical corridor had grown unnaturally quiet around her — as if even the staff understood that this room was not to be disturbed more than necessary. Meals had been brought in. Water replaced. Blankets adjusted when she drifted off for short, restless moments.
But she had not stepped outside.
Not once.
Afternoon light filtered softly through the tall windows, warm and gold, stretching across the white sheets and pale walls. Dust floated lazily in the air.
Leah had fallen asleep without meaning to.
She sat in the chair beside his bed, body slightly curled inward from exhaustion. At some point, her head had tipped sideways until it rested near Izana's arm.
And her hand—
Her hand lay flat against his chest.
She hadn't realized she'd done it.
Maybe she had been checking his heartbeat again.
Maybe she had never really stopped.
Then—
A faint twitch.
His fingers moved slightly against the sheets.
Another twitch.
His breathing shifted — uneven at first.
Slowly, beneath the white blindfold, Izana's eyes opened.
For several seconds, he didn't understand anything.
The ceiling above him wasn't familiar. The air smelled sterile and faintly medicinal. His body felt unbearably heavy, as if gravity had doubled while he was unconscious.
Pain lingered in his ribs. His throat burned.
Where…?
Memory was slow to return.
He turned his head slightly.
And saw her.
Leah.
Asleep beside him.
Her hair slightly disheveled. Shadows faint beneath her eyes. Her posture awkward from staying in that chair far too long.
And her hand resting over his heart.
He went still.
He listened.
The steady rhythm beneath her palm.
His heartbeat.
She had been checking.
A weak, rare smile touched his lips — small, but real.
Carefully — slowly — he lifted his trembling hand. Even that small motion pulled faintly at his bandages.
But he managed.
He placed his hand gently over hers.
Warm.
Grounding.
"…Leah."
His voice was rough. Hoarse. It barely carried across the space between them.
She stirred instantly.
Her brows knitted as she shifted—
Then she winced sharply.
A quiet, involuntary sound slipped from her lips as pain shot through her shoulder.
Izana's faint smile disappeared immediately.
Memory struck him.
Warehouse.
Concrete.
Her falling.
Blood.
His fingers tightened slightly over hers.
Leah blinked awake, disoriented for a moment — then focused.
She froze.
"Izana…?"
He was looking at her.
Awake.
Holding her hand.
A faint blush rose to her cheeks before she could stop it.
"You're awake," she breathed, pushing herself upright carefully. The movement was slow — controlled — but she couldn't fully hide the stiffness in her shoulder.
He noticed.
"You're in pain."
"I'm not."
"You are."
She ignored that.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quickly, leaning closer without thinking. "Are you still in pain? Does anything hurt? I can call someone if you need—"
"Let me see your shoulder."
She went completely still.
"…What?"
"Your shoulder," he repeated quietly.
"It's fine."
"Let me see it."
Her blush deepened instantly.
"No."
The refusal was too quick.
Too sharp.
He frowned faintly.
"Why?"
"It's nothing."
"That isn't an answer."
She looked away.
"You don't need to see it."
"I do."
"You just woke up."
"That doesn't change anything."
Silence stretched between them.
His tone shifted — firmer now, though still weak.
"Turn around."
Her face burned.
"No."
His brows drew together slightly, frustration flickering beneath the surface.
"Why are you refusing?"
She hesitated.
Then quietly—
"…Because it's my back."
The admission lingered between them.
Understanding came slowly.
"You think that matters?"
She refused to look at him.
"I don't want you to see it."
His expression hardened slightly — not angry, but resolute.
"I am your husband."
The words were steady.
Clear.
Not distant.
Not indifferent.
For the first time, he said it without detachment.
Without treating it like a technicality.
He acknowledged it.
Claimed it.
Leah's breath caught sharply.
Her heart skipped.
He had never said it like that before.
Never owned it so plainly.
"I am your husband," he repeated, quieter but no less firm. "There is nothing improper about me seeing your back."
Her cheeks flushed deeper.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
She opened her mouth — then closed it.
There were too many reasons. None of them easy to say aloud.
"You don't need to see it," she said again.
"That isn't your decision alone."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"I was injured too," he continued. "You saw worse."
"That was different."
"How?"
She had no answer.
Silence thickened.
His jaw tightened faintly.
"You stayed here the whole time I was unconscious."
"Yes."
"You touched my chest to make sure I was breathing."
Her blush deepened further.
"Yes."
"But I cannot see your shoulder?"
She clenched her jaw.
"…No."
A long pause followed.
The firmness in him slowly faded.
Exhaustion crept back into his posture.
After several seconds, he exhaled slowly.
"…Fine."
Leah blinked.
She hadn't expected that.
He leaned back against the pillow, the small movement costing him more than he let show.
"If you don't want me to see it," he said quietly, "then I won't."
She stared at him.
"You're… giving up?"
"I'm not arguing with you."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
Her confusion was obvious.
"You were just insisting."
"And you were just refusing."
"That's never stopped you before."
A faint pause.
The corner of his lips lifted slightly — tired, but real.
"I don't have the energy."
She frowned faintly.
"That's not the only reason."
He was quiet.
Then softly—
"If you're uncomfortable, that's enough."
The gentleness in that answer disarmed her completely.
He had just declared himself her husband.
He had acknowledged it openly.
And yet—
He wasn't forcing the claim.
He wasn't demanding.
He simply respected it.
She studied him carefully.
"You're really not going to argue?"
"No."
"…Why?"
"Because you're still here."
Her breath caught again.
"You stayed," he said quietly. "Even when you were hurt."
The monitor continued its steady rhythm between them.
"And if you don't want me to see your back," he added softly, "then I won't."
The tension drained from his shoulders.
He closed his eyes briefly — not asleep, just conserving strength.
Leah sat there, stunned.
She had expected persistence.
Another argument.
Another firm reminder of their marriage.
Instead—
He had let it go.
Just like that.
"…You're strange," she muttered softly.
"Probably."
She hesitated, then slowly placed her hand back over his chest.
This time intentionally.
"You really meant it?" she asked quietly.
"What?"
"That you're my husband."
He opened his eyes slightly beneath the blindfold.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No coldness.
Just quiet acceptance.
Her cheeks warmed again.
She didn't know what to say to that.
So instead—
She let her hand stay where it was.
And he covered it with his.
And neither of them moved.