My cheeks heat up the second his name leaves his mouth.
Zayan.
He says it so quietly, like it's nothing, like it's just air leaving his lungs. But fuck me—it hits like thunder. And here I am, blushing like a high school idiot, like some hormonal teenager giggling behind lockers. I'm twenty-one, for god's sake. Twenty-fucking-one. What the hell is wrong with me?
I press my lips together, biting down a grin like it might kill me if I let it loose.
And then I move—slowly, god so slowly—my fingers barely have strength, but I manage to curl them around the edge of the curtain between us and slide it open.
He turns his head.
The look he gives me?
It's insane. It's half judgment, half confusion, full what the fuck is wrong with you woman? Like I've just flashed him or declared I'm starting a cult. That glare—tilted head, slow blink, mouth twitching with sarcasm—God, he's beautiful.
I almost laugh. Almost. But my voice comes out breathy instead.
"You have a beautiful name."
His brows lift just a little. "I know."
Cocky asshole.
I blink at him, taken aback. "You're not supposed to agree."
"Says who?"
"Ugh. Never mind," I huff, still smiling, still blushing like a goddamn fool. "I just meant—since i know your name—maybe we should talk more?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just stares. Like he's reading through my skin, searching for an angle, an agenda.
Then, calmly, flat as glass: "Talk more for what?"
I pause. "So we don't feel like strangers anymore?"
He gives a slight nod, sarcastic as hell. "Right. Because strangers who nearly die together become friends, is that it? A name makes us allies now?"
Okay, that stings a bit. "No, I didn't mean it like that—"
He cuts in, "You said it exactly like that."
God, he's infuriating.
I narrow my eyes. "You know what? I really thought—after sharing your name—you might finally show signs of being an actual human. Maybe even nice."
"Nice," he repeats with a smirk. "Is that the bar now? I share my name and suddenly I'm supposed to grow manners and make tea?"
"I didn't say tea, I said talk. Like a normal fucking person."
He shrugs. "And I said facts. We are strangers. And me giving you my name doesn't erase that."
I stare at him. My fingers twitch on the blanket. I wish I could throw something at him. Not hard. Just enough to make that smirk drop.
"God, you're still so fucking rude," I mutter.
He doesn't deny it. Of course he doesn't.
I lean my head back against the pillow and look at the ceiling, exhaling slow. The soft light from the overhead glows like melted cream, warm but not comforting. Nothing here feels comforting.
And yet he's still the most beautiful part of this entire luxury cage.
Zayan.
The name replays in my mind like a whispered song, like a secret I shouldn't have but do. His voice when he said it—low, not gentle, but... real. More real than anything else he's ever said to me. And now it's stuck in my head like a damn heartbeat.
I glance at him again. He's not looking at me anymore. Just lying there, head turned slightly, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it personally offended him.
So I whisper, "Zayan."
He doesn't react, but I see it. His jaw twitches. A tiny flex in his throat.
He heard me.
God, why does that feel so dangerous?
I say it again, a little louder. "Zayan."
This time he shifts, turning slightly in his bed. The IV wire tugs against his skin. His voice comes out lazy, cool, like he's too tired to deal with me. "What now?"
I shrug—or try to. My body doesn't move much, but I tilt my head and say, "Just testing how many times I can say your name before you lose your shit."
He lets out the softest exhale. Not a sigh. Not a laugh. Something in between.
"Do you always act this annoying when someone shares something personal?"
"Is a name personal to you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
His eyes flicker toward mine. Sharp. Focused. "More than you think."
There's a weight in that answer. Heavy. Unspoken. I feel it settle in the room like a storm cloud with nowhere to go.
I look away. "I'll stop saying it then."
"Too late. You already made it sound pretty."
I blink. Turn back toward him. "What?"
He doesn't repeat it.
And I don't push.
But fuck, that made something flutter deep inside me. A name shouldn't feel like a confession, but here we are.
Zayan.
The name tastes like silk and ash. Beautiful like his face, but carved from something darker. Something colder. Something mine now.
And I'm not giving it back.
"If you're done with your little game," he says, voice dry, slow, "can you close the curtain now?"
It slams the smile right off my face.
The warmth that bloomed in my chest—just seconds ago, when he gave me his name like it was a rare secret—shrinks. Cracks. My hand freezes on the curtain drape, and I stare at the narrow space between us like maybe I heard wrong. Like maybe he didn't just shut the door I had barely started to open.
"Why?" I ask, my voice too soft, like it's got no fight in it. "You don't like it open?"
"No," he says simply. "I don't like it."
That's it. That's all he gives me. No explanation. No smirk. No softness. Nothing.
"Okay," I whisper, nodding even though he can't see me, and I reach out and slide the curtain shut between us. The sound of it closing feels louder than it should—like a fucking door slamming in my face. Like he took his name back with it.
There's silence. Heavy. I hate it. I hate how it settles over me like disappointment, thick and itchy under my skin. My eyes sting, but I don't let them leak. Not again. I already cried in front of him once. That's more than enough to haunt me for weeks.
I turn my head to the ceiling and try to swallow the tight feeling in my throat. It's not like I expected him to suddenly like me. Or be warm. Or give a shit. But for a second—for a stupid, foolish second—I thought maybe we were... I don't know. Not strangers.
And I hate that I care this much. Hate that my body reacts to his voice like it's a fucking balm even when it's cold. Hate that I'm sitting here thinking about the way he said my name like it was something delicate.
"Don't think too much," he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, more strained. "I'm just tired. That's all."
I don't say anything.
But my heart stutters. And stupidly, so stupidly, it latches onto that. "Tired." Not "I hate you." Not "shut the fuck up forever." Just tired. Maybe. Maybe that's something.
"So," I say after a second, trying to sound light, casual, like I'm not piecing my insides back together. "You're talking now."
"I'm not."
I blink. I almost laugh again. What the fuck is this man?
"Then…" I drag out the word, trying not to smile. "Who's voice am I hearing right now? Ghost of the ICU?"
There's a pause, and I can almost imagine his face—blank, deadpan, one brow raised.
He doesn't take the bait.
"So you should shut up," he says, coldly. Flat. No hesitation.
And there it is again—that slam. That steel wall.
I should stop.
I should.
But I can't. I don't know why the fuck I can't. Something about him pulls the worst parts of me to the surface—the stubborn, reckless, lonely parts. Maybe because he's my crush, maybe because I've thought about him more than any sane girl should about a stranger from traffic. Maybe because we're broken in the same space and I don't want to be broken alone.
Or maybe because his voice, even when it's mean, makes the world feel less silent.
"So this is how you talk to everyone?" I mutter, mostly to myself, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
He doesn't answer. Of course not.
"You're really something, Zayan," I whisper, letting his name linger on my tongue like a secret I'm not supposed to enjoy.
And then I turn my face away from the curtain, shove the blankets higher, and tell myself I don't care.
Even though I do.
Even though I'm not just blushing—I'm burning.
Because the boy I've crushed on for over a year, the boy whose name haunted my thoughts like some damn fantasy, just told me his real name. And now he's shut me out again like it meant nothing.
And yet, all I can think about is the way he said it—like he was giving me something I didn't earn. Like he was tired, but not entirely heartless. Like somewhere deep under that ice, something might still be soft.
Zayan.
Beautiful name.
Cold voice.
Still the most unfairly beautiful face I've ever seen.
And the most guarded boy I've ever met.
But I'm not done with him.
Not yet.
________________________
Morning again.
I don't even know if he's awake or not. And I don't check. I don't slide the curtain. I don't even glance left.
He told me to close it, and I did. Not because I wanted to. Not because I agreed. Just because I thought… maybe he'd like me more if I listened. Dumb.
The space between us is barely a fucking arm's length. This one stupid curtain—luxurious and heavy, thick like it's meant to keep secrets—this is all that separates me from him. From the boy who should've been a stranger but somehow feels like something carved into my ribs.
I bite my lip and lie still, staring at the ceiling. The silence is suffocating. But not in a calm, peaceful way. It's the kind that makes you feel like you're losing a game you don't even understand the rules of.
Was I being annoying yesterday? Did I push too much?
Maybe I am a burden. Maybe I should just shut the hell up and leave him alone like he clearly wants.
But that would mean giving up on whatever this… thing is.
And I don't give up.
So I turn my head, slowly. Not left. Right. Away from him.
The TV remote is resting on the table near the window. I slide my hand out from beneath the covers, grab it, and flick the TV on. Bright light fills the room. I scroll through channels until I land on some news show I couldn't give a rat's ass about.
Then, I raise the volume. Loud. Louder. Just enough to be annoying.
Let's see if His Highness says something again.
But silence.
Nothing.
I grit my teeth, glancing sideways at that stupid expensive curtain that somehow feels like a damn prison wall. My fingers twitch. I want to slide it open so fucking bad. Just to see his face. That fucking face. What does it look like in the morning? Soft? Angry? Untouchable like always?
And his voice. God, that voice—what would it sound like in the morning?
I pretend to focus on the TV but my whole attention is pinned to the left, to the silence, to the space where his breath should be.
And then—
"Now it's you who's being rude."
His voice slices through the air like a goddamn knife, low and husky, deeper than yesterday, raspy like smoke curling from embers.
I flinch, startled, heart thudding. "What?"
Still hidden behind the curtain, he speaks again. "The volume. It's obnoxious. Do you have a problem with your ears?"
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. There he is. The asshole prince.
"I prefer loud," I say casually, , not even pretending to hide my satisfaction.
He snorts, unimpressed. "That says a lot about you."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"That you're desperate for attention."
I should be offended. I should throw the remote at the curtain. But I'm not.
I grin. "Oh, and here I thought you liked girls who try hard."
"I don't like girls."
Ouch. Cold. Brutal. So him.
I raise a brow even though he can't see it. "Noted. But you do like to talk for someone who supposedly hates conversations."
Silence again.
I stare at the curtain and imagine him glaring. Or maybe smirking. Or maybe both. Probably both.
"You don't get to decide what I do or don't like," I continue, biting back a laugh. "Also—'obnoxious'? Really? Who even uses that word anymore? You sound like a grumpy old man."
He exhales sharply. "You're exhausting."
"And you're infuriating."
"Desperate?" I echo, still not turning to face him. "Says the man who listens to every word I say but won't even show his face."
"I'm not hiding," he replies. "I just know what matters and what doesn't."
"So I don't matter?"
A pause. A silence that feels heavier than lead.
"No," he says simply.
I don't let it cut. Not today.
I turn the volume even higher, just to be petty.
"I'll make sure to keep it extra loud then. You know, since I don't matter."
"Do what you want," he mutters, and I swear I can hear the irritation now, curling under his control. "Just don't expect me to entertain your little games."
I grin to myself, my blood buzzing.
Oh, sweetheart.
You already are.
So I crank the volume up.
Higher than before. Louder than sanity. The speakers blare some overacted melodrama where a man is screaming about betrayal while a woman sobs dramatically in slow motion. It's fucking awful. And perfect.
My lips twitch.
If I'm desperate, then fine. Let me be desperate and loud and annoying and right here. At least I'm not a lifeless machine on the other side of a fancy-ass curtain trying to pretend I don't exist. If I wanted to be kind, I wouldn't still be here. If I wanted to be proper, I'd close my mouth. But I want him to see me. Hear me. Acknowledge me. So yeah, I'll be the problem today.
I fold my arms across my chest even though it hurts, my eyes fixed on the TV. My spine straightens like I've got a goddamn crown on my head, even though I'm stuck in a hospital bed with an IV like a half-dead princess from a Greek tragedy.
The curtain slides open.
Fast. Deliberate.
Not by mistake.
I freeze.
He's staring at me.
Not with sleepy eyes or the dull glaze of someone just waking up, but with those fucking eyes. And oh my god—they're not black. They're not even close. They're dark brown. Rich and fucking sinful. The kind of brown that looks black in shadows but turns into molten fucking gold when the morning sun slices through the room like now.
I swear I forget how to breathe.
The soft light filters in through the massive window behind him, hitting the side of his face. His jaw's a little sharper in the morning. Hair a mess, ruffled like he slept on one side too long. Lips parted slightly. Lashes thick. There's a lazy arrogance in the way he looks at me, like he knows exactly what kind of mess he's making out of me right now.
His voice cuts through the air like it's slicing butter. Low. Annoyed.
"Give me the remote. Or shut it down."
That's it. That's all he says.
Not please, not can you, not even a proper insult. Just an order.
My hand acts on its own. It turns the TV off like it's obeying a king.
The silence hits harder than the sound did. The drama vanishes. All that's left is the buzz of tension between us. That sterile hospital air turns hot. He doesn't say anything. Just stares.
And I—I'm just sitting here like a damn statue.
My mouth is dry. My heartbeat's too loud. And I swear to fucking hell, the cardiac monitor is betraying every single secret I have. Beep. Beep. Beep. Loud. Fast. Screaming look at this idiot girl, she's fucking dying over his face.
I can't even look away.
Because goddamn it, he's even more beautiful in the morning. Not like a fairytale prince. No. That face could kill empires. That face could make you sin twice and still ask for more. And he's looking at me like I'm the one being insane.
Shit.
I slam the curtain shut.
Almost like it'll help. It doesn't.
The air is too hot now. My hand is still hovering near the switch. My chest is heaving. My legs won't move—obviously, but fuck, even if they could, I'd still be stuck.
What the hell was that?
I shove my face into the pillow and whisper, "Get a grip, bitch. You're twenty-fucking-one, not thirteen with a crush on a vampire."
But my skin burns. Everywhere. His eyes are tattooed behind my lids. That stare. That stupid voice. That messy morning face. And the way he said it, like I was his problem to fix.
I grit my teeth and try to calm the traitorous machine beside me. But my heart won't shut the fuck up.
And neither will my thoughts.
Because he slid the curtain open.
He looked at me.
He saw me.
And I think… maybe he wanted to.
But why the fuck does he always ruin it with that mouth of his?
Asshole.
Sexy. Cold. Unreachable. Asshole.
And I want him to do it again.
That's the only thought burning through me as my eyes fix on the now-closed curtain between us.
I don't know what I expected—maybe some kind of witty comeback, another one of his blunt insults that shouldn't sound so fucking sexy, or just his voice again, that voice that sounds like it hasn't tasted sugar in years. But silence follows, and it's the worst part.
The room feels too quiet again. The volume's off, the remote is on the bed next to me, and the damn beeping from the machines is louder than my breathing, louder than my thoughts. My heart won't calm down, and I swear the monitor is mocking me for it. Snitching on me to him. If I could tear the wires off, I would.
But I don't. Instead, I lie there like a coward, like someone who didn't just lose her damn mind over a pair of dark brown eyes that made her soul crawl out of her skin.
Then his voice cuts through the silence again—rough, low, absolutely merciless.
"Do you know what your problem is?"
I freeze.
That tone. I don't even need to see his face to know he's looking at the curtain like it personally insulted his bloodline.
"You're not talking to me because you actually care," he continues, slow and cold like he's dragging the words just to hurt me. "You're doing it because you're lonely. You're guilty. You want me to ease that weight off your chest. You want me to forgive you, so you can feel better."
I blink. My lips part. Nothing comes out.
"It's not about me. It's about you," he says, scoffing. "You want to be a good person now that you fucked everything up, and I'm the easiest one to dump your sins on."
My throat tightens. I try to speak, but I don't even know what the hell I want to say. How can he sound so calm while being so cruel?
He exhales. A bitter, sharp sound.
"You're desperate. Not for me, no. For peace. And I'm supposed to be the priest you confess to?"
God. That stings.
I clench my jaw, fingers twitching at my sides. I want to throw something, scream something, slam that remote right against his voice. But I stay still. Swallow hard.
Because he's wrong.
Isn't he?
He's wrong.
I want to believe he's wrong.
But the fucking thing is—some part of me is doing it because of guilt. I am the reason he's lying broken in that bed. I am the reason he can't sit up, can't leave, can't even fucking escape my voice every morning unless he closes the curtain between us like I'm some disease.
And maybe he knows that.
Maybe he's punishing me for it in the only way he knows how—by being right.
But that doesn't mean I'll let him get away with it.
Not this time.
Even if he breaks me every time he opens his mouth.
I don't say a single word the whole day.
Not to the nurse. Not to the doctor who checks my chart like I'm some interesting corpse. Not even when they bring in the soup I never fucking eat. I just lie there—silent, heavy, aching.
Because his words don't leave me.
You're not talking to me because you care. You're lonely. You're guilty.
Fuck.
He ripped the air out of my lungs and didn't even blink while doing it.
And maybe he's right.
Maybe I am guilty. Maybe I am clinging to him like he's some kind of absolution.
But I didn't deserve that kind of cruelty.
I press my lips together and stare up at the ceiling, every inch of me burning with humiliation. I feel like someone stripped me naked and left me under a spotlight just to watch me squirm.
I don't want to talk to him again.
I don't want to beg for his voice. For his attention. For anything.
"No more," I whisper to myself, barely audible over the hum of the machines. "Not again."
Even if my chest feels hollow without him.
Even if my body aches for a voice that doesn't sound like poison.
Even if I hate this silence almost as much as I hate him.
Now it's night. The lights are dimmed, the nurse is gone, and there's nothing left but shadows crawling across the room like memories I never asked for. I stare out the glass wall on my right, refusing to look left. Not even once.
He doesn't deserve it.
He doesn't deserve the way I almost miss him, even now.
I watch the blinking lights of the city, the blur of headlights below. Somewhere out there, people are living. Laughing. Screwing each other over in new, exciting ways.
And I'm in here.
Trapped between guilt and silence, pretending like his heartbeat on the monitor behind the curtain doesn't sound like it's trying to talk to me.
It's steady.
Sharp.
Alive.
I close my eyes. Grip the sheet between my fingers.
I won't talk to him.
Not after the way he humiliated me. Not after he tore me open and left me bleeding with that smug, detached voice.
I won't.
Even if the only thing I want more than sleep…
…is to hear him say anything again.
_________________
I feel a hand.
Warm. Big. Smooth against my fingers.
Not like the sterile touch of the nurses, not the cold latex or quick checks and needle pokes. This is... still. It holds me like I might vanish.
I open my eyes slowly. Light bleeds in, dull and white. My head's heavy. My throat dry. But my gaze settles—and it's not who I expect.
Shadin.
His fingers are wrapped around mine like he's afraid I'll disappear. His eyes are glossy, and there's this trembling smile on his lips like he's seeing something sacred. I blink, and my vision clears, and it's really him.
Tears burn instantly in the corners of my eyes.
"You almost gave me a heart attack," he says, trying to smile, but it quivers. "I fucking thought—" His voice cracks, and he laughs through it. "I thought I was going to lose you."
I want to answer but my throat doesn't work. So I just look at him, helpless.
"Did I come late?" he asks softly.
"A lot," I whisper, and my voice sounds alien to me.
He squeezes my hand gently. "I couldn't get an earlier flight. I couldn't think. When they told me..." he exhales hard. "I can't even explain it.
He lifts my hand, "Still not waking you, huh?"
A tear slides down the side of my face, into the pillow.
"It's okay," he says, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. "It'll ease. All of it. I promise. You'll heal. You're tough. You're the toughest person I know."
I can't stop the tears now. He wipes them with his sleeve, murmuring something under his breath I can't catch. I want to thank him. I want to apologize. But I just nod, broken and silent.
Then something shifts in his face. A flicker of... something.
His expression hardens, sharpens. His jaw clenches, and I blink in confusion as he stands up slowly and reaches for something.
The left curtain.
He slides it open.
My whole chest clenches.
What the fuck is he doing?
How does he know someone's there—?
Shadin glares across the divider like a bomb just went off. "You almost killed her, you selfish piece of shit."
My heart stops.
He's not talking to me.
He's talking—
To him.
Zayan.
Still lying there, arm slung up lazily behind his head like he doesn't give a damn. His face unreadable, mouth tight, eyes as cold as a goddamn glacier.
"You became fucking reckless—again—" Shadin snaps, "—and you almost took her with you."
I can't speak.
What the hell is happening?
Zayan doesn't even flinch. His voice is low, flat. "Didn't die, did I?"
"Not this time," Shadin growls, stepping closer. "You think your luck's gonna hold forever? You think you're invincible just because you can fucking glare at the world and it flinches?"
Zayan turns his head, bored. "You're still whining?"
"You sped into a red signal, you psychotic bastard!"
"And she walked into the road like she owns it," Zayan shoots back, his voice sharper now. "You blaming me for her idiocy?"
I flinch.
"You asshole!" Shadin storms closer, grabs the collar of Zayan's hospital shirt. "You wanna blame her?! She was the one bleeding like hell on the road! You dragged her down with you!"
Zayan stares at him, completely unfazed. "Take your hands off me."
"Make me."
They're nose to nose, venom dripping from every word.
"You've always been like this," Shadin spits. "Everything's a game to you. No rules. No care. And now she—she—ends up here because of your bullshit."
Zayan's jaw ticks. "She chose to be there. Not my problem she doesn't watch the road.*"
"Say that again and I swear—"
"I didn't die," Zayan says, voice ice. "And I won't. Unless you do something that stupid."
It hits different. The way he says it. Cold. Sharp. But there's a weight in his voice like he meant every word.
I finally croak, "Shadin... do you—do you know him?"
They both look at me.
Shadin looks like he forgot I was even in the room. He swallows hard, jaw tightening.
"Yeah," he says. "Unfortunately,
I do.Cousins."
Zayan snorts.
My heart fucking stops.
Wait.
Wait—what?
"What the fuck?" I breathe.
Cousins?
Zayan is—Zayan is Shadin's cousin? My crush for over a year—is Shadin's cousin?
Two fucking handsome Men in one bloodline??
How the hell did I not know this?
How—how did he not mention it?
What the actual fuck is going on?
Shadin exhales shakily. "You scared everyone."
Zayan raises a brow. "Good to hear."
Their eyes lock again like they're enemies from another life.
"You were supposed to be careful," Shadin says, quieter now. "You promised."
"People lie," Zayan says. "Get used to it."
"You fucking—"
"Don't start with me. Especially not here."
"She could've died, Zayan."
"But she didn't."
Silence cuts through everything.
Zayan looks straight at me for a moment, eyes cold. He doesn't say anything else. Just looks.
I don't know what the fuck is happening. My head spins, my body aches, and now my best friend is scolding some guy I thought was a stranger but turns out is family.
I thought he was a stranger.
Zayan turns his head away, like none of this matters. Like we're just noise in his ears.
Shadin looks at me, eyes softer now. "He's always been like this. No heart. No brakes."
Zayan lets out a low laugh. "Better than living in fear."
They hate each other. That much is obvious. But under the hate, under the sharp words and biting tone, there's something else.
Shadin's afraid. Of losing me. Of losing him.
But Zayan—he's just... unreadable.
Cold. Sharp. Distant.
And now I'm stuck between them.
And I still can't move.
------------------
The room turns dead silent after Shadin leaves.
Like someone snatched all the air out of it.
I don't look at Zayan. I just stare straight ahead at the IV line in my arm, like it holds all the answers. My brain's still scrambled from the shitstorm that just hit me. I still hear their voices echoing — You almost died, Why the fuck were you speeding, Don't act like you care, Unfortunately, he's my cousin.
Cousins.
Fucking cousins.
How the actual hell did I not know?
I swallow hard. "So," I mutter finally, not even bothering to mask the disbelief in my voice, "you're really his cousin?"
He doesn't answer immediately. I force myself to look left. He's leaned back on his pillows now, jaw set, gaze locked on the ceiling like he wants to fucking murder it.
His voice cuts in like a blade.
"Yeah."
That's it. That's the damn answer.
One word. No explanation. No details. No hey-just-in-case-you're-losing-your-mind-right-now comfort. Just yeah.
I scoff under my breath, laughing bitterly. "Of course. Of fucking course."
His eyes flicker toward me — just for a second — before they go back to pretending I don't exist.
I shift slightly in my bed, wincing. My ribs scream in protest, but my mind's louder. Louder than the beeping machines. Louder than my pride.
"Shadin cares about you," I say finally, staring at the on the ceiling because I don't have the guts to meet his eyes. "He's scared for you. You could at least give a damn that someone gives a shit if you live or die."
Nothing.
Fucking nothing.
I turn my head toward him slowly, my voice sharper this time. "Did you hear what I said?"
His gaze slides to mine, deadpan, unreadable.
"I heard."
"Then say something."
"Why?" His tone is like ice cracking beneath boots. "You already did all the talking."
My stomach twists.
What the hell is wrong with him?
"You're seriously not gonna respond to any of what just happened? After your cousin walked in here and nearly lost his mind over both of us being half-dead? After he fought with you like he's been carrying the weight of this entire week alone while you just lay there being—"
"Being what?"
His voice slices through mine like it's nothing. Like he owns the fucking air in this room and I'm trespassing just by breathing it.
I blink at him. "Cold. Distant. Like a damn wall."
He doesn't even blink.
"Better than being a wreck."
My jaw tightens. "Oh, fuck you."
"You tried."
And I break.
"I don't get it," I say, half a whisper, half a scream inside my chest. "Why do you act like everyone's your enemy? Why do you push away the people who give a damn? You think that makes you stronger? Makes you untouchable? You think not saying anything, not giving anything, makes you harder to hurt?"
His eyes meet mine. That slow, predatory blink. Like a man who's not tired, just done.
"It works."
I hate how calm he sounds. Like he's figured life out and decided emotions are for losers.
My voice comes out rough. "You're not as unreadable as you think, you know that? You care. Even if you pretend not to. You do."
He stares at me.
Then says, almost lazy:
"That your fantasy, or your therapy?"
And just like that, I'm hit with silence.
Sharp. Cold. Brutal silence.
I look away. My throat feels like it's closing. I don't cry — I won't. I just swallow it down with all the other stupid feelings clawing up my ribs.
He says nothing else. No more one-liners. No more knife-sharp comebacks. He just turns his face back toward the ceiling again and rests his arm across his stomach, the veins on his forearm barely visible under the white light.
I clench my jaw. "I didn't ask for any of this," I whisper, not sure if I'm saying it to him or to myself. "Not to be hit, not to end up in this room with you, not to find out the guy I've trusted for years has a cousin who's a goddamn hurricane of moods."
His chest rises. Then stills.
"And yet," he says finally, voice low, bored, "here you are."
I turn my face away, back toward the right wall.
I don't look left again. I don't ask more. I don't know how to deal with this new reality.
But I hear it — that steady beep-beep-beep of his monitor.
And no matter how pissed I am…
How utterly done I am with his bullshit…
I still know that sound by heart.
And that fucks me up more than anything.
The silence that follows is bitter. It sinks into the room like rot. He doesn't say a damn word. Not even a scoff or sigh. Just that heavy, breathing silence like he's waiting for me to crumble again.
But this time, I don't. I just lay back, stare up at the ceiling like it's gonna give me answers, and chew on every sharp thing I should've said to him earlier. I bite my tongue until it aches.
Then his voice slices through the quiet. Low. Unexpected. Cold.
"How do you know him?"
I blink.
It takes me a second to process that he actually spoke to me. Asked me something. The first thing in all these damn days. My breath hitches before I manage to answer.
"He's my friend."
Pause.
I glance toward the curtain, still closed between us, though his voice somehow pushes through like heat under a locked door.
"He was my senior. In university."
"…Which university?"
There's something in the way he asks that. Not just curiosity. A layer beneath it. Not quite jealousy—but something bordering dangerous.
"St. Meridan," I reply.
He goes quiet again.
"Why?" I ask after a beat. "Why'd you ask that?"
"He cares about you."
His voice is blunt. Empty. Like he's just stating a weather report.
My brows knit. "Of course he cares. Maybe he sees me as… I don't know, family?"
A sharp scoff. "Dumb."
My spine snaps straighter.
"Excuse me?" I narrow my eyes at the curtain like I can stab through it. "Did you just call me dumb?"
He says nothing. No follow-up. No explanation. Just breath. Just silence again, like that was the only thing he needed to say.
And it pisses me off more than anything.
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AUTHOR NOTE
Hey, you beautiful chaos — thanks for sticking with me through this rollercoaster.
This chapter is all about those moments that sting—the ones where words are weapons and silence can kill just as much as noise.
Zayan and Arshila are in that brutal dance of wanting and pushing away, and honestly? It's messy, real, and a little bit fucking addictive.
If you're vibing with the tension and the feels, don't forget to hit that vote button, drop a comment, and share this madness with your friends. Your support keeps me writing these late-night rants and raw scenes that make our hearts beat faster.
Stay wild, stay real. And remember—sometimes the loudest battles happen in the quietest rooms.