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The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and rain — Sylus’s scent, not hers — and the emptiness in the air pressed heavier with every breath he took. Without her laughter, without the quiet murmur of her voice or the steady warmth of her presence, the space felt hollow. Just cold walls and stretched shadows, the kind that crawl under skin and never leave.
She lay still on the bed, small beneath dark sheets that seemed to swallow her whole. Her skin was pale in the gray light slipping through the half-drawn curtains, almost glowing in a way that made her look fragile—like she might break apart if he touched too hard.
The doctor had been here, had given the same reassurances: mild concussion, exhaustion, no real danger. But Sylus knew better. The truth sat like a stone in his chest, heavy and unyielding. The kind of truth that whispered in his ears when no one else was watching — that she could slip away any moment, leaving him with nothing but memories.
The twins waited silently beyond the closed door, as he’d instructed. This room belonged to her and him. No one else had the right to be here, not now, not until she opened her eyes again.
He lowered himself to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, the blanket tilting toward him like it wanted to pull him closer to her, but he stayed still, afraid to disturb the fragile peace.
Her hand rested limp on the covers, palm up, pale and delicate. He stared at it longer than was sane, memorizing every line, every tiny scar. Slowly, his fingers brushed over her knuckles, the gentlest touch, as if afraid to wake her from the wrong kind of sleep.
“Three days,” he whispered, voice rough and broken, the rain tapping quietly against the window like a metronome counting out his anxiety. “Three days since you made me think I was going to lose you.”
No response, just the slow rise and fall of her chest — steady, maddeningly peaceful.
He remembered the hunt with cruel clarity. The moment she stumbled, the flicker of panic in her eyes, the way she collapsed before he could catch her fully. How her body went limp against him, and the cold bite of fear sunk deep into his bones.
“I told you to wait for backup,” he said softly, the edge of frustration cutting through the quiet. “But you didn’t listen. You had to be the hero, didn’t you?” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “Idiot.”
The silence swallowed him whole — only her breathing, the rain’s whisper, the faint hum of the heater.
His eyes traced the curve of her cheek, the sweep of lashes resting lightly against her skin. She looked so delicate, like a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering, and the thought twisted his heart in ways he hadn’t expected.
He swallowed, voice breaking as he spoke again. “Do you remember that night on the training field? When you tried to beat me in hand-to-hand… and I let you think you almost won?” A small, shaky laugh slipped out. “You still owe me for that.”
His elbows pressed against his knees as he leaned forward, speaking to the space between them like his words could reach into her dreams. “You can’t do this to me. Not when I—” His jaw clenched, swallowing the words that had been stuck in his throat for months. “When I care about you.”
The weight of those unspoken words hung between them like a fragile glass thread.
Suddenly, a soft knock interrupted the silence. One of the twins, checking in. Sylus didn’t answer. After a moment, the knock stopped.
He exhaled slowly. “You’ll wake up,” he said, voice steady but fragile. “Because you promised me. You promised you wouldn’t make me wait.”
His mind drifted back to warmer moments, desperate for something to hold onto:
— The way she smiled when she caught him off guard, bright and full of mischief.
— The night they sat under the stars, her hand slipping into his, fingers curling around his palm as if anchoring herself there.
— Her breath on his neck during late-night talks, soft and real, grounding him when the world felt uncertain.
Memories like fragile threads that kept him tethered.
Then — movement. The barest twitch of her fingers against the blanket. His head snapped up, eyes wide and fixed on her hand.
Her lashes fluttered, heavy and slow, like the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. Her gaze met his — unfocused, searching, but unmistakably hers.
“You’re here,” she whispered, voice cracked and hoarse from sleep and pain.
Sylus swallowed hard, closing his hand over hers, warmth flooding through the contact. His other hand rose on its own, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead, fingertips lingering there like a silent prayer, afraid to let go.
Tears gathered behind his eyes as he spoke, voice barely more than a breath. “Always.”
She blinked slowly, and for a moment the fragile hope he had fought to hold onto bloomed — soft, trembling, but alive.
The knot in his chest loosened just enough — not gone, never gone — softened by the only truth that mattered: she was awake.
And as her eyes stayed locked on his, Sylus dared to believe he wasn’t losing her after all.