I glare at the curtain like it owes me an explanation. "Did you just call me dumb?"
His voice comes back, smooth as ice. "Then do you want me to call you genius?"
I let out an exaggerated, drawn-out "Waaah, rude." Sarcasm drips from every word.
"Thank you," he shoots back, like it was a compliment.
The silence that follows is thick, stretching between us like the gap in that damn curtain. I fiddle with the edge of the blanket, feeling a little stupid for even talking to him, but fuck it—I'm trying.
"What do you do for a living?" I ask, almost whispering it.
He doesn't answer right away, just shifts slightly on his bed, and finally: "Why do you want to know?"
I shrug inside, though he can't see it. "So I can think you're at least human."
That gets a slow, humorless chuckle from him. "I do some part-time jobs. Just existing."
I bite back a smile. "Just existing, huh? You buy a BMW bike with 'just existing'?"
His voice sharpens. "How do you know I have a BMW bike?"
Shit. Fuck. Dammit. I almost say, I saw you a year ago, but no way. That would make me sound like a fucking stalker.
"Uh… oh, I just guessed. No—no, I mean when you hit me. It was like slow motion, and my brain caught the logo," I stammer, feeling ridiculously dumb but desperate to explain.
He says nothing. I know it's stupid, but I'm grasping at whatever I can.
"Can't I buy something with part-time jobs?" His tone is teasing, but there's a hint of challenge buried in it.
"How much do you earn then?" I ask, half-joking, half-serious.
His voice turns sharp again, "Why are you so invested in my personal life? And who even asks these types of questions?"
I laugh, biting the inside of my cheek. "Okay, okay, I went too far."
He shrugs, dismissive but slightly amused. "I make some hundred dollars in one hour."
I don't say anything, just stare at the ceiling for a moment, mulling that over. That's not too much, not too little. Just… ordinary. Maybe he's like me—scraping by, hustling hard in his own way.
Curiosity crawls back in, so I ask, "What about your parents?"
There's a pause, then, "My dad is in business. Mom… exists. Just like me."
I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.
I laugh, feeling bold. "Define 'exists.'"
He shoots back with a dry, "You know, the usual. Breathing, eating, avoiding people."
I chuckle again, shaking my head. Here I am, lying in this ridiculous hospital room with some guy who looks like he stepped out of a magazine or a goddamn movie set but acts like a total asshole.
And yet… in my head, he's just an ordinary guy. Working hard. Making his own way. Just with a face that could make models jealous or actors curse him for stealing the spotlight.
I glance toward the curtain, and his eyes meet mine through the gap. He raises an eyebrow, like, What the hell is wrong with you, woman?
I almost laugh again but keep it bottled up.
I'm not sure if I want to hate him for being such an asshole or admire how damn real he is.
Either way, I'm stuck with him.
And, shit, maybe that's not the worst thing.
I don't know why, but something about the way he says "exist" like it's a curse word… it makes me laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's tragic and weirdly attractive. Who the fuck says something like that? "My mom just exists."
God. He really is something.
His voice still lingers in the air, heavy and low like smoke. He's watching me, even though he's not looking at me. I can feel it in the air, in the tension between the space of our beds. I look away, pretending to fix my blanket when I'm just trying to get my thoughts in order. Because they're not in order. Not anymore. They've been a damn wreck ever since he opened his mouth.
I glance at him again. The glow from the machines reflects in his eyes, and for a second, he looks unreal. Not just good-looking. Unreal. Like he doesn't fucking belong here with wires attached to his arm and that crooked smile that ruins everything logical in my brain.
And that's when it hits me.
He never asked.
Not once.
Not my name. Not where I'm from. Not what I do. Not how I ended up in that damn accident or why I was crying like a lunatic last night.ofcourse it's cuz of him.
Nothing.
He's just been sitting there, answering whatever I throw at him like he's passing time with a stranger on a long-ass bus ride. Like I'm just a voice in the room. A phase. Something temporary.
And fuck, that stings more than I thought it would.
I mean, I was the one opening the curtain. I was the one forcing the air to move between us. And he just—let me. Gave nothing back except dry sarcasm and those annoying, infuriatingly beautiful eyes.
I don't say any of that, obviously.
Instead, I turn my head slightly and ask, calm and cool like I haven't just been mentally screaming for five minutes, "Do you want to close the curtain?"
He blinks. Turns his head slowly like he's trying to figure out if I've completely lost it. "You're the one who opened it."
My mouth twitches. "Yeah. But if you want privacy or whatever…"
He tilts his head—that fucking tilt—and his eyes narrow slightly. "If that's what you want now, okay. I don't have a problem."
He says it like he's done with this conversation. Like he won't beg or ask or even care. And maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's just that type of person—cold and content with it.
I stare at the ceiling and feel like an idiot. A full-blown, psycho, overanalyzing idiot.
Why the fuck am I even having this mental crisis over a guy I barely know?
Silence slips in again like a cold blanket, but this time it's not comfortable. It's loud. Screaming in my ears.
Then his voice cuts through it, low and casual and arrogant as ever.
"You're an overthinker."
I don't look at him, but my jaw clenches. "Excuse me?"
"I mean…" His voice has a smirk. "That brain of yours? It's like a hamster on crack."
I turn my head and glare at him. "Wow. Thanks. I'll put that on my résumé."
He shrugs, completely unfazed. "You're welcome."
And I swear—swear—if I had something to throw at him, I would've done it by now.
But all I have is this silence, this ridiculous tension, and the realization that he's not what I thought he was.
He's not the man I've built up in my head.
He's not kind.
Not warm.
Not even polite.
He's just a beautiful, sarcastic, emotionally constipated asshole who answers questions like it's a game and never, ever asks any in return.
And I don't know why that bothers me more than it should.
But it does.
It really fucking does.
The sudden click of the door jolts my spine straight—not literally, because apparently that's a luxury I don't have right now—but mentally, my whole body goes on high alert. I can't see who it is. The goddamn curtains are closed around the bed like I'm some dying princess or a damn corpse in a showroom.
Footsteps.
Not heavy. Not slow. Confident but not arrogant.
Is it Shadin again?
Or my friends?
God, if it's Ifrah again, I swear I'm going to scream. I can't hear another lecture about hydration and positive affirmations.
Maybe my parents?
No, they came two days ago. My dad sniffled and left in two minutes flat. My mother pretended she wasn't crying and tried to feed me god-knows-what from a thermos that smelled like betrayal.
But this?
Whoever it is… they're walking closer. I feel it. And it's not a nurse. Nurses don't walk like that—this one doesn't belong here. Whoever it is, isn't part of this room.
My front curtain slides open.
And the one standing there—holy shit.
Of all the people I expected, imagined, feared, hoped, dreamed, or even hated walking in...
Not him.
Never him.
Not even once in my fucking wildest delusions.
"Aydin?" My voice doesn't even sound like mine. It sounds like I coughed up confusion.
He stands there. Smiling. Like nothing's happened. Like the world is still intact and he's still the center of it. He's even brought fucking flowers. I shit you not. A neat little bouquet like he just walked off the cover of "I'm a Nice Guy" magazine.
He walks in like he owns the damn oxygen in this room and sets the flowers on the tiny, overpriced table beside me like they mean something.
"Hey," he says casually. "How you doing?"
My eyes narrow instantly. My voice is flat. "Not bad. But not good either."
He laughs. Chuckles. Like I'm charming or something. Like this is some date in a coffee shop and not a hospital room where I'm barely held together by wires and exhaustion.
"This is why I like you, you know?" he says, sitting down in the chair beside my bed, crossing one leg over the other like we're about to chat about the stock market.
I force a smile. One of those awkward, barely-there ones that say get the fuck out without saying anything at all.
"You okay, right?" he asks, tone soft but patronizing. "I know you've been sad because the engagement never happened, because of the accident and all. But don't worry, we'll fix it, okay?"
Sad?? Me??? Bro!
What the actual fuck is this clown talking about?
Does he think I'm lying here weeping about a wedding that didn't happen? That I'm mourning the missed opportunity of becoming Mrs. Aydin the Almighty? The same guy who ghosted me the moment shit hit the fan and suddenly remembered my existence when I became everyone's pity project?
God.
I keep staring at him, trying to piece together how I ever once thought he was decent. First time I met him, he was so smooth, so polite. All clean edges and good cologne and sir, yes sir vibes.
What a fucking con.
He looks around now like he's judging the feng shui. "Room's nice," he mutters. "Of course it's nice."
Then his eyes flick back to mine and for a second, his smile drops just a little—like he's about to drop a grenade.
"You know... if you hadn't gone to your friend's café opening the day before our engagement, this probably wouldn't have happened."
My blood goes cold.
Oh. Hell. No.
He actually just said that.
This motherfucker.
"You should've been more careful, you know?" he continues, voice still friendly, still calm, still too fucking casual for the shit spilling out of his mouth. "It's some responsibility."
My hand twitches.
If I could fucking move, I would punch him in the throat. I'd snap the fucking IV line just to watch him choke on his own damn audacity.
Responsibility?
I should've been careful?
Where the fuck was he when I was getting scraped off the pavement like roadkill? Where was he when I woke up with a hole in my memory and a body that wouldn't move? He didn't come. . And now he's here trying to mansplain the accident to me like he's reading out of a safety manual?
He sighs. "Well, not everyone is responsible like me. That's why I work at TIG, you know?"
TIG.
There it is again.
That cursed-ass company keeps popping up like a fucking horror movie villain.
TIG this. TIG that.
TIG is everywhere—
Aydin leans back in the chair like he just solved world peace.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, breathing rage through my nostrils because apparently, my mouth doesn't trust itself not to start a goddamn war.
He sips from the water cup the nurse left earlier. Like he owns it. Like he owns me.
"Anyway," he says, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve, "I just thought I'd come by. Check on you. Clear the air."
Clear the air?
No, no. Light it on fire. Burn it to hell.
I stare at him. Hard.
And all I can think is—you fake son of a bitch.
He's not here because he cares. He's here because someone told him he should be. Because his image is on the line. Because he wants to look like the good guy who visits his "almost fiancée" in her hospital bed.
Fucker didn't even ask how the accident happened. Just assumed it was my fault.
And you know what the worst part is?
For two seconds… I thought maybe… just maybe, it was kind of sweet that someone showed up with flowers.
Stupid.
Fucking stupid, Arshila.
There's a guy breathing on the other side of the curtain who's more of a mystery than any person I've ever met—and He doesn't ask if I'm okay. He doesn't even ask my fucking name.
But he also didn't blame me.
Didn't talk down to me.
Didn't sit there like a smug piece of shit on a guilt trip.
And fuck me, for some twisted reason, that quiet asshole feels more real than Aydin ever did.
I shift slightly, trying not to wince, and glance at the curtain again.
He's there.
Still there.
Silent.
Probably listening.
And for once, I don't care.
Let him listen.
Let him hear every fake, polished word that comes out of Aydin's pretty mouth.
Aydin leans back in the chair like he owns the place—like this whole fucking situation is just a mild inconvenience in his otherwise fabulous, self-absorbed life.
"The doctor said it'll take more than three months to heal properly," he says, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "But damn, I can't wait that long, okay?"
I blink at him.
Wait for what?
Wait for me to walk again? Wait for me to recover like a goddamn machine you pre-ordered and now it's taking too long to ship?
"What... what exactly are you waiting for?" I ask slowly, not even trying to hide the confusion—or the disgust—twisting in my gut.
He laughs. Actually laughs. The kind of shallow, rehearsed laugh that makes my molars itch. "The competition. In my company. There's this huge deal going on, but the catch is—only married people can apply. Power couple campaign or whatever. Can you believe that shit?"
I just stare at him. I'm speechless.
Oh, he's not done. "So yeah, that's why I'm in a rush. Don't think it's something else, okay?" He waves a hand like I'm the delusional one here. "It's not like I'm desperate to get married. I'm just... being smart. Strategic."
Strategic. That word slams into me like a car all over again.
That's what I am to him. A fucking checkbox. A means to qualify. Not a person. Not a woman who's lying half-paralyzed, god knows if I'll walk again or not. Just a tool.
"I see," I mutter. But my voice comes out dry. Bitter. Distant.
This piece of shit. This literal walking piece of golden trash.
He scratches the back of his head like he's trying to act shy now. "My mother said she wants to come too. I told her, 'For what? It's not like she's dead.'"
I go still.
What. The. Fuck.
"Like, you have no problem, right?" he continues, completely unaware that my silence is violent right now. "I mean, yeah, sure, you're in bed and all. But it's not like you've lost your mind or anything."
No problem?
No problem?
I can't sit. I can't stand. I can't fucking wipe my own goddamn tears if I wanted to. My legs feel like logs. My spine is a broken thing. And this man—this absolute waste of time—is acting like I'm being dramatic for not bouncing back fast enough to get his little competition deal sealed.
In my head I'm screaming. Loud, violent, furious screams that would rip wallpaper off the goddamn walls. But on the outside, I'm just staring at him, jaw tight, trying not to break my vocal cords with the sheer rage stuck in my throat.
He pulls out his phone now, like he's done with me. Like this whole visit was a formality he had to tick off. He doesn't even glance at the other side of the curtain. Doesn't even ask.
Not once.
Not once has he asked, "What about the other person in the accident?"
And I realize—he doesn't care. Not about me. Not about what happened. Not about anyone. And the worst part?
I never gave a damn about him either.
Even before the accident, I didn't want this engagement. I never said yes with a full heart. My parents wanted it. His family wanted it. Everyone except me.
My heart wasn't with him. Never was. It was with someone else. A stranger I used to see once at traffic lights, the man I was obsessed with for a whole fucking year. A man whose name I didn't even know, but whose presence haunted every fucking beat of my heart.
And now... he's here.
He's here, just behind that curtain.
Zayan.
The man I thought was a dream. A hallucination. A one-time glimpse of perfection that life would never give me again.
But fate? Fate's a bitch. She brought him to the bed beside mine, broken, bleeding, silent. And now I lie here, listening to his heart monitor every night like it's my only lifeline.
And yet, this guy—Aydin—is sitting here telling me about company policy and married people incentives like I'm not shattered in a thousand places.
He stands, finally, brushing invisible dust off his expensive pants.
"Well, I should get going. Big day tomorrow. You know how it is." He grins, and god, I want to slap it off his face with a frying pan.
"You'll be okay, yeah?" he adds, like it's an afterthought. "Just focus on healing. We'll talk later about... you know, the engagement stuff."
I nod. Just so he'll leave. My body is heavy, but my thoughts are blazing.
"Bye, babe."
Don't call me that.
And he leaves.
Finally.
The door clicks shut behind him and I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. My eyes sting—not because I'm sad, but because I'm so fucking angry. Angry at myself for not cussing him out. Angry at the world for pairing me up with that idiot in the first place. Angry at every goddamn moment I wasted on a life I never wanted.
But then, I hear it.
The beeping from the left side. The soft, rhythmic sound of his heart. Zayan's heart.
I turn my head slightly—just a little—and stare at that damn curtain.
My real obsession. The man who doesn't speak much but says everything with the silence. The one I actually care about. The one I've wanted for so fucking long I forgot how not to.
Not Aydin.
Not ever.
Fuck him.
I don't want that engagement. Not now. Not ever.
All I want... is the man behind that curtain.
.
God, I should've told Aydin to choke on his own ego.
Should've used whatever strength I had to hurl that fucking bouquet straight at his face.
But I didn't.
Because I was too busy calculating the safest way to keep my blood pressure from exploding through the roof.
Now I'm lying here, jaw tight, still staring at the ceiling like it's going to hand me a refund for my entire life.
Three fucking minutes after he's left and I can still smell that overpriced cologne lingering in the air like a chemical weapon.
Fucking Aydin.
Sitting here like he's some victim of my spinal fracture. Like I crashed myself on purpose just to mess up his golden-boy engagement.
As if my bones weren't rearranged and my organs didn't almost throw in the towel just for him to come drop his bouquet like it's an award for best supporting fiancée in a tragedy.
And then—
The voice.
A calm, blunt one. From the left side.
From him.
> "Is he your boyfriend?"
I don't move. Don't even blink. Just stare straight ahead like if I move too much, the world might tilt again.
But I answer. Not for Aydin. Not for the ghost of whatever the hell that mess was.
Just because Zayan asked.
"No," I say flatly. "He's just… an inconvenience in my life. That's all."
A pause. Then—his voice again.
Cool. Unbothered. That low, sharp tone like he only uses words when absolutely necessary.
> "You have nice taste. I really appreciate it."
I turn my head slightly toward the curtain—not fully, but enough to raise one brow like he can feel it through the fabric.
"What do you mean?" I mutter. "You didn't even see him."
Another pause. A longer one this time.
And then—his voice drops a bit lower, almost dry amusement now.
> "I don't need to see him to know he's trash. I can smell it from here."
"You picked a very high-quality, Grade-A piece of shit. Premium-level asshole. Even worse than me."
I choke. On my own breath.
Is it bad that I want to laugh?
Not like… sweet, flirty laughter. No.
More like manic, unhinged laughter, the kind that comes out after weeks of emotional constipation and silent rage.
I let the silence sit for a second. Let that line echo between us like it deserves to be framed on a wall.
"Well," I say finally, voice dry. "Thanks. That's the most honest compliment I've gotten in a while."
He doesn't reply. Doesn't have to.
His silence is louder than most people's speeches.
But I feel it.
That tiny ripple in the air.
The shared understanding of what kind of person Aydin is. The way Zayan read him from behind a curtain with more accuracy than my entire family ever could.
And for a moment—just a short, breathless moment—I feel like I'm not crazy.
Like someone sees the bullshit and doesn't try to sugarcoat it.
I blink up at the ceiling again, letting my voice settle into something tired but brutally honest.
"You know," I mutter, "I didn't even know him. Not really. Just knew his name. His face. Our families decided it, rushed it like we were checking boxes. Graduate, get engaged, settle down. My dad even threatened to throw me in some crappy company if I didn't say yes. So I said yes. Quietly. The kind of yes you whisper at a funeral."
I exhale through my nose, eyes stinging but not enough to cry.
"And then God did what I couldn't. Slammed the brakes. Literally."
Still no reply from him. Just that hum of his heart monitor, steady like it's listening.
"So yeah," I continue, quieter now, "he wasn't my boyfriend. Not even close. Just a project. An obligation. Something I was supposed to complete like a school assignment."
Another pause. Then—finally:
> "Sounds like a shit assignment."
I actually smile. Like, for real this time.
It's crooked. Slight. But it's there.
God help me, I smile.
"And I failed it," I whisper. "Spectacularly."
> "Good."
That's all he says.
Just good.
No fake comfort. No patronizing "You'll be okay" or "You deserve better."
Just good. Like my failure was the smartest thing I've ever done.
And suddenly, I feel a little less guilty for everything I didn't do.
For not crying when the engagement got called off.
For not saying his name when people asked who I was engaged to.
For feeling relieved every time I remembered the wedding didn't happen.
Another few seconds pass. Then, out of nowhere, my mouth moves before my brain can filter.
"You know," I murmur, "you talk like you don't care, but you kind of do."
Still silence. But I can hear the shift in his breath. Subtle. Tight. Like he wasn't expecting that.
"And I mean," I go on, sarcasm curling at the edge of my voice, "you're calling other men assholes when you claim to be the original."
> "He's worse."
Blunt. No hesitation.
I hum.
"I don't know. You're kind of competing pretty hard right now."
> "I don't compete with trash."
And I grin.
Because that?
That's the kind of heat I understand.
Not flowers. Not grand speeches.
Just sharp, quiet truths.
Zayan might be cold. Closed-off.
But at least he doesn't lie.
Doesn't pretend.
And honestly?
That's more than I can say for half the people who claim to love me.
So I lie there in silence. Curtain still half-open. Night settling deep outside.
And for the first time in days… I don't feel like a total accident.
I feel seen.
Even if it's by a stranger behind a curtain.
Even if he never says my name.
He heard me.
And that's enough for now.
------------------------------------------------------
I wake up to a voice.
Not the usual nurse mumble, not some random beep, and definitely not that fake-sweet doctor who always smells like sterile guilt. This voice is deeper. Male. Not Zayan. Not familiar.
And it's not supposed to be there.
For more than two goddamn weeks, that side of the curtain has been mute. Silent like a fucking grave. No footsteps, no visitors, no sobbing parents or nosy nurses—nothing. While my side got flooded with pity visits, overly dramatic friends, my damn family, and that useless piece of shit Aydin—his side stayed dead quiet.
Until now.
I blink, still groggy. My neck aches like hell, but I twist anyway, slowly turning toward the sound. The voice is low, amused. Another one answers—smooth and confident. There's laughter, then another voice joins in, a little rougher, careless.
I squint toward the curtain.
The pale green fabric looks different today, like it's about to betray secrets.
I fucking have to see.
I try sitting up—fail. My body screams. I settle for dragging myself just enough to peek from the edge of the curtain. The moment I get a glimpse, I freeze.
What the actual fuck?
There are three of them.
Three devil-spawned, absurdly hot men standing like they've just stepped out of a movie scene and decided to drop into a hospital room for a casual photoshoot. I forget to breathe for a second.
One of them is leaning against the far wall, a leg bent up, resting flat against it like some teenage delinquent god. He's wearing a loose white t-shirt, baggy black pants, and the kind of sneakers that scream fuck-you-money.
He's got dimples.
Fucking
dimples.
They cut deep when he turns slightly to look at the one speaking. Hair messy, jaw like a damn blade, lips curved like sin, but he's not smiling.
Expressionless.
Hot and cold fucking murder vibes in one body.
Another one is sitting lazily on the couch, hood pulled over his head. A hoodie in a hospital—only the ballsiest assholes get away with that and still look sexy. His face is tilted toward the light, and that's when I see it—his fucking eyes.
One's pitch black.
The other is amber gold.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Mismatched eyes. Like a walking red flag dipped in danger and dipped again in testosterone.
And then there's the one standing closer to the bed—closer to Zayan. He's in dark baggy jeans, a loose black shirt hanging off his frame like it doesn't deserve him. He's got a mole under his left eye. Just one. Right under the lash line. I want to punch it and lick it at the same time.
Who the hell are these Greek god knockoffs?
And why the fuck are they around Zayan's bed like this is some elite hangout spot?
Before I can pull back, the one with the mole looks straight at me.
Fucking hell. Eye contact. Bad idea.
I panic and slide down in my bed like a guilty creep. My heart is punching through my ribs. My mouth dry as a bone. Fuck. Abort mission. I act casual. Innocent. Maybe he didn't—
Too late.
The curtain slides open.
Fuck.
And now I'm exposed like a damn science experiment under a spotlight. Their eyes—all of them—land on me. Heavy, intense, shameless. I feel naked. Not in a sexy way. In a "why the hell did I open my eyes today" kind of way.
I glare at them, recovering fast. "What?" My voice is hoarse. Defensive.
The one with the mole tilts his head, smirking like I'm some mildly interesting bug. "So… this is your roommate?"
The hooded one lifts his mismatched gaze toward me and shrugs. "Prefer accident-mate, huh?"
What the—?
I mutter under my breath, "What the fuck is privacy anymore?" More to myself than them. Not loud. But they hear.
All three of them blink. Then grin. The one with the mole lets out a low whistle. "So she bites."
"Stop," Zayan's voice cuts through like a blade. Calm. Sharp. Cold. It's the first time I hear him since the crash.
They all smirk harder. Like his warning only fuels them.
The hood guy with the mismatched eyes stretches out a leg and says lazily, "We're his friends."
I squint. So?
I don't say it out loud. But my face does.
They catch it.
The one with the mole steps forward like we're in some classy-ass meet-cute. "Nice to meet you," he says. "I'm Eshan."
I blink.
He gestures to hoodie guy. "That's Razmir."
Razmir raises a brow, his amber eye gleaming like it knows too much.
Then the last one, the quietest one, just shifts his weight and says, "Rafaen."
No smile. No blink. Just pure carved-from-marble coldness. Like he couldn't give less of a shit about me, this room, or life in general. His voice is deep, low, and it vibrates through my ribs like a threat in a velvet box.
I nod dumbly. "Oh."
That's all I say. Because what the hell else am I supposed to say to this trio of hell-sent walking sins?
They all turn back to Zayan.
Eshan smirks. "So what do we call this?"
Razmir says, "Room fate?"
Eshan scoffs. "Crash bonding?"
Rafaen says nothing. Doesn't even glance at me again.
I have no fucking clue what they're talking about. But whatever it is, Zayan's not answering. He just lay there in silence, gaze blank, jaw clenched, like he didn't hear a thing.
My eyes flick between them. I feel dizzy. High. Not drug-high. Hot-man overdose high. My pulse won't calm down. These guys could be on the damn cover of a mafia edition of GQ and no one would dare edit their photos. They're that stupidly gorgeous.
But it's Zayan I glance at last.
And he's still hotter.
Still more intense. Still more him.
Even half-dead in a hospital bed, he has the kind of terrifying beauty that makes the others look almost human.
"Are you okay?" Razmir asks suddenly, looking straight at me.
It startles me. I blink. About to answer—
"You can go now," Zayan says, cutting in. His voice calm. Too calm. That kind of calm that sounds a lot like get the fuck out in a velvet tone.
They exchange glances, amused.
Eshan salutes. "Take care of him," he says to me. "We'll be back."
Razmir winks. Rafaen doesn't even flinch. Just turns and walks.
I don't know what the hell just happened. I don't even breathe until they vanish from the curtain's edge.
Zayan's hand moves. His fingers close around the edge of the curtain.
Then, with a sharp, aggressive pull, he slams it shut between us.
The sound is louder than it should be.
And I'm left staring at the fabric again, heart hammering like I just walked out of a dream and into a panic attack.
What the actual fuck was that?
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