The room is cloaked in soft amber light, the night settling gently outside the tall windows of the Sinclair estate.
Leila lies on the plush guest bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. The blanket covering her feels impossibly warm, and the silence around her isn't lonely — it's comforting. The kind that settles into the bones after a long, chaotic storm.
She turns slightly, the silk sheets whispering against her skin. Her mind drifts to earlier that evening — the quiet knock on the door, Isabelle's kind eyes and soft voice asking if she needed anything. The warm soup brought without fuss. The way Raffaele had lingered just long enough to ask if she was resting well, his presence fatherly and composed.
They didn't ask who I am. Or why I'm here. They just… cared.
The thought floats through her chest like a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Her eyes close slowly, exhaustion tugging her down. But her heart still hums with quiet disbelief — that strangers could show such kindness, without demanding anything in return. Without expecting her to explain her existence or prove she's worthy.
As sleep begins to take her, her memories stir.
She's in her old room back home — the one with the faded floral wallpaper and her stuffed panda by the headboard. The soft scent of turmeric and rose water lingers in the air.
Her mother sits beside her, gently pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. "Leila, sweetheart… you didn't eat again, did you?" her voice thick with concern.
Leila murmurs something in reply, too drowsy to respond.
The door swings open and in steps her baba, brows furrowed, worry etched into every line of his face.
"She needs to see the doctor. Right now," he says firmly, already reaching for his phone. "Call the clinic, I don't like this pale look—did she faint again?"
Amara appears behind him, clutching a glass of water. Daim peeks around the doorframe, wide-eyed and anxious.
Leila watches the scene unfold — her family orbiting around her like a constellation of love and panic.
Even in dreams, their care feels overwhelming.
She stirs slightly in her sleep, the dream lingering like a film of warmth and ache over her chest. A faint smile curves at the corner of her lips, and a tear — small, silent — slips down her cheek.
Even far from home, even in a foreign bed surrounded by strangers…
She doesn't feel alone tonight.
Elias stands just outside the partially open doorway, his shoulder leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp that casts a golden halo around Leila's sleeping form.
She's curled slightly on her side, one hand tucked near her cheek. There's a softness to her face now — a vulnerability she never lets show when she's awake. He watches as her brow furrows faintly, lips parting in a whisper he can't hear. A tear glimmers on her cheek and disappears into the pillow.
It knocks something loose in him.
He's seen people cry before. For pain, loss, fear — some even to manipulate. But this… this is different.
This is the kind of grief that sleeps beside love. The kind that comes from missing something too deeply to say aloud.
He doesn't understand it fully, not yet — but he feels it.
She's not just tired, he realizes. She's carrying something… or someone. Always.
He hadn't meant to check in again tonight. Kai had rolled his eyes when he asked for the second time if Leila had eaten anything. And yet here he is — standing in silence like some haunted statue, watching her sleep just to be sure she's breathing a little easier.
What is this, Elias?
The question rises again like an old ache — not unfamiliar, just long buried.
He steps closer, just a few feet now, where he can see the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her features are delicate — not fragile, but composed, refined in their restraint. Even in unconsciousness, she carries the grace of someone shaped by restraint and discipline.
There's a scarf draped across the chair by her bed. He remembers how she always wears one — how she lowers her gaze around men, how her posture shifts in crowded spaces, always creating distance.
At first, he'd assumed it was formality. Now… Now he knows it's something deeper. It's her armor.
She's not just modest — she's intentional. Guarded not because she's fearful, but because she's principled.
And that — that unshakable quiet dignity — unsettles him more than he'd like to admit.
What are you doing to me, Leila?
The thought is sharp and unfamiliar. Dangerous.
He doesn't act on it.
He doesn't reach out to brush that tear away, though something in him wants to.
Instead, he takes a slow step back, letting the moment dissolve as he turns and walks away without a sound.
He doesn't look back.
But that image — her sleeping quietly, face tilted toward the light — lodges somewhere beneath his ribs and refuses to leave.