Morning came quietly.
Not with sunlight—there were no windows underground—but with the subtle shift in the air. The faint hum of the lights changed pitch, and somewhere above them, footsteps passed briefly, then faded. Time moved differently down here, measured not by the sun but by breathing, pain, and the slow return of awareness.
Izana woke first.
He always did.
His eyes snapped open, instincts sharp even as his body protested. Pain flared immediately—white-hot in his shoulder, dull and throbbing through his ribs, the curse simmering beneath his skin like a coiled serpent waiting for an excuse to strike. He clenched his jaw hard enough that his teeth ached.
Fuck.
He didn't move right away. Moving meant acknowledging the pain, and acknowledging the pain meant risking losing control.
He became aware of Leah a second later.
She was still lying beside him, back turned, breathing slow and even. She hadn't moved in her sleep—not once. There was still a careful distance between them, the same one she'd left when she climbed into bed. It struck him then how deliberate that had been.
She'd stayed.
Not because she was forced to. Not because she didn't know better.
She chose to.
That realization made something uncomfortable twist in his chest.
Izana stared at the wall, eyes unfocused. He wasn't used to this—someone staying when things were ugly, when he was hurt, when the truth was visible even without words. Usually, people left. Or he made them leave.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted just enough to sit up. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through his shoulder, and he hissed under his breath.
"Shit—"
Leah stirred immediately.
She turned, eyes fluttering open, still half-asleep. When she registered him sitting up, her expression sharpened with concern.
"Izana?" Her voice was quiet, rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said automatically, too quickly.
She pushed herself up onto one elbow, studying him. "You're bleeding again."
He glanced down. The bandage around his shoulder was darkened, blood seeping through the layers.
"…Fuck," he muttered.
Leah sat up fully now, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "You shouldn't have moved so fast."
"I didn't move fast," he snapped, irritation flaring—at the pain, at himself, at the fact that she was right.
She didn't argue. Instead, she stood and moved toward the small cabinet near the sink, retrieving fresh bandages and antiseptic. Her movements were calm, practiced now.
"Sit still," she said gently.
"I can handle it," he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
She paused and looked at him. Not angry. Not hurt.
Just steady.
"You tried that last night," she said quietly. "It didn't work."
That shut him up.
He exhaled sharply and leaned back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "Fine. But don't—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "Just… be quick."
Leah nodded and knelt in front of him, careful not to crowd him. "Tell me if it hurts too much."
He almost laughed at that.
It already hurts too much.
But he said nothing.
She worked slowly, peeling away the soaked bandage. Izana tensed despite himself, breath hitching as cool air hit the wound. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"Fuck," he hissed, shoulders going rigid.
"I know," Leah murmured. "I'm sorry."
The apology caught him off guard.
She cleaned the wound carefully, flinching slightly when he did. She wasn't detached about it—she felt every reaction he had, mirrored his discomfort with quiet empathy.
"You don't have to do this," he muttered. "You shouldn't have to."
Leah didn't stop. "You don't get to decide that for me."
He looked down at her sharply, but she kept her eyes on her work, expression calm but firm.
"This room," she continued softly, "With the bandages and bullets… you survived all of that alone. I know that's what you're used to. But you don't have to be anymore."
Something in his chest cracked—just a hairline fracture, but enough to hurt.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he said darkly. "Being close to me isn't safe."
She finished wrapping the bandage and sat back on her heels. "I'm not asking for safe," she said. "I'm asking for honest."
Silence stretched between them.
Izana looked away first.
After a while, Leah stood and gave him space, moving back toward the bed. "You should rest. You lost a lot of blood."
He scoffed weakly. "I've lost more."
"I know," she said. "That doesn't mean this doesn't matter."
She sat on the bed again, this time closer to him than before—but still not touching. A conscious choice.
Minutes passed. The tension didn't vanish, but it softened.
"I figured it out," Leah said suddenly.
He stiffened. "Figured what out."
"The man at reception," she said. "I've seen him before. At the mansion. He wasn't a stranger."
Izana's jaw tightened.
"You built this place for yourself," she continued. "Didn't you? Somewhere you could disappear to when things got bad."
He didn't deny it.
"…Yeah," he said finally. "It's easier if no one asks questions."
Leah nodded slowly. "And the 'last guest'?"
He let out a bitter laugh. "Me."
She swallowed. "How many times?"
"Enough."
She turned toward him then, really looking at him. "You don't deserve to go through that alone."
His eyes snapped to hers, something sharp and raw behind them. "You don't get to decide what I deserve."
"Maybe not," she replied. "But I can decide whether I stay."
That hit harder than any wound.
Izana looked away again, chest rising and falling unevenly. "You should leave," he muttered. "Before you regret it."
Leah didn't move.
"Izana," she said softly, "I'm still here."
The words echoed in the small room.
Something shifted then—not dramatically, not all at once—but enough to matter.
He lay back down slowly, exhaustion pulling at him again. This time, he didn't tell her to move. Didn't tell her to go.
Leah hesitated, then lay down too, on her side, facing his back.
They didn't touch.
But the distance between them was smaller now.
Izana stared into the dim light, thoughts heavy. This is dangerous, he told himself. Letting her close. Letting her see.
And yet… when his breathing finally slowed, when the pain dulled just enough for sleep to claim him again, one truth remained undeniable.
For the first time in a long while—
He wasn't alone in it.