The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows in pale ribbons, softened by the heavy curtains Leah had learned to keep half-drawn. It was brighter than morning, but still gentle enough that it didn't hurt Izana. The mansion felt quieter at this hour—not asleep, not busy—just holding its breath.
Leah sat beside Izana's bed with a small tray balanced carefully on her knees.
Soup.
Again.
She stirred it slowly with the spoon, watching the steam rise and fade. It wasn't much—thin broth, carefully seasoned, easy to swallow—but even that felt like too much sometimes. She glanced at Izana, gauging his posture, his breathing, the way his shoulders were held tight as if bracing for something unseen.
"Ready?" she asked softly.
Izana nodded faintly beneath the blindfold. "Yeah. I think."
She lifted the spoon and waited, letting him set the pace. When he leaned forward, she brought it to his lips.
He managed the first spoonful.
Then the second.
By the third, his hand twitched against the sheets, fingers curling, his breathing growing uneven.
"That's enough," Leah said immediately, pulling the spoon back. "You did good."
"I didn't even finish half," he muttered, frustration slipping into his voice.
"You finished what you could," she corrected gently. "That's what matters."
He exhaled sharply through his nose but didn't argue. His head tilted back slightly, resting against the pillow, as if the simple act of eating had drained more from him than he wanted to admit.
Leah set the tray aside and wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin. "Do you want water?"
"Later," he said. Then, after a pause, quieter, "Thank you."
She smiled faintly. "You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I know," he said. "I still want to."
She didn't respond this time. She just nodded and stood to put the tray away.
When she returned, Izana was unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
She noticed the way his fingers flexed against the sheets, restless. The way his jaw tightened slightly beneath the blindfold. The way his head angled just a fraction toward her arms.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said quickly.
She raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't convincing."
He hesitated.
Then, quietly, "Your arms."
She froze for half a heartbeat.
"My—?"
"I saw them yesterday," he continued, voice low. "When you rolled your sleeves up."
Her shoulders stiffened instinctively. "It's not a big deal."
"It is to me," he said.
Leah opened her mouth to deflect—to joke, to downplay, to lie the way she always had—but the words stalled when she heard the strain beneath his calm. Not anger. Concern.
"Izana—."
"I want to help," he interrupted. "Just like you help me."
She stared at him. "You can barely sit up."
"I know," he said. "I'm not asking to carry you. Just… let me do something."
The curse stirred.
A low, insidious pressure coiled in his chest, whispering warning after warning. This is not your role. This is weakness.This invites pain. His pulse quickened, breath hitching slightly as the familiar noise crept closer to the surface of his thoughts.
He ignored it.
Leah hesitated, torn between instinct and reality. Every rational part of her knew she should refuse. He was exhausted. He was still fragile. Pushing himself like this wasn't safe.
But she also saw what this meant to him.
"…Okay," she said finally. "But you stop if it's too much."
He nodded once. "Deal."
She pulled the chair closer and sat, slowly rolling up her sleeves. The bruises were still there—some yellowing at the edges, others dark and fresh. Marks that told stories she had never spoken aloud.
Izana inhaled sharply.
His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening.
The curse surged violently this time, reacting to the sight with feral intensity. His vision swam behind the blindfold, static roaring in his ears. His muscles tensed, instinct screaming to strike, to destroy the source of harm.
Not her.
Never her.
His breathing grew ragged. Leah noticed instantly.
"Izana," she said calmly, reaching out but stopping short of touching him. "Hey. It's okay. You don't have to—."
"I'm fine," he said, though the word came out strained. "Just... give me a second."
He focused on her voice. Counted her breaths. Let the wave crest and pass without giving it control.
Slowly, the noise dulled.
He reached for the small jar of ointment on the bedside table, fingers shaking as he twisted it open. His movements were clumsy, but deliberate.
"Tell me if it hurts," he said.
She nodded. "I will."
His fingers hovered near her arm, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
He touched her skin.
Gently.
The contact sent a strange, grounding sensation through him. Her warmth. Her stillness. The trust implicit in the way she didn't flinch.
He applied the ointment carefully, spreading it over the bruises with slow, cautious strokes. His face was close now—closer than necessary—because his balance wasn't great and because focusing on her arms helped drown out the curse's whispers.
"You don't have to be so careful," Leah murmured. "I promise it doesn't hurt."
"I still will," he replied.
The curse didn't like this.
It pushed again, sharp and insistent, making his head pound, his stomach twist. His shoulders trembled under the strain of holding himself upright, of maintaining control while doing something so profoundly gentle.
But he stayed.
When he reached for the bandages, Leah helped guide them into his hands without taking over. He wrapped them slowly, unevenly, concentration etched into every line of his posture.
As he worked, his face drifted closer again.
Close enough that when he lifted his head slightly—
He stopped.
Something shifted.
Through the blindfold, through the strange, heightened awareness the curse warped and twisted, he became suddenly aware of her gaze.
Blue.
Not just light. Not just color.
Clear. Steady. Open.
He had never known.
His breath caught.
The word slipped out before he could think better of it.
"…Beautiful."
Leah froze.
Her cheeks flushed instantly, heat rushing up her neck. "What?"
Izana realized what he'd said a fraction too late.
"I—I didn't—." He turned his head away quickly, mortified. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—just forget it."
She laughed softly, embarrassed, turning her own face away. "You can't just say things like that out of nowhere."
"I didn't plan to," he muttered.
They both went quiet, suddenly very aware of how close they still were.
Izana finished the bandage quickly after that, hands shaking more from exhaustion than nerves. When he leaned back against the bed, the effort caught up to him all at once. His breathing turned shallow, shoulders slumping.
"You pushed yourself," Leah said gently, helping him settle back.
He nodded faintly. "Worth it."
She shook her head, but there was a softness in her smile. "You're stubborn."
"So are you," he countered weakly.
She reached for the water and helped him drink a few careful sips. When he was settled again, she sat beside him, their hands brushing lightly.
Neither of them moved away.
Outside, the afternoon drifted on.
Inside, something fragile and dangerous continued to grow.
And even the curse—watchful, restless—seemed unsure how to destroy it.