Room 12 was quiet in that unsettling hospital way—too clean, too bright, the fluorescent lights humming like they had something to prove. White sheets lay perfectly tucked, machines beeped with irritating confidence, and the air smelled aggressively of antiseptic. And yet, wrapped up in Rafael Vexley's arms, Eliana was the only thing in the room that felt real.
Rafael's tall, athletic frame curved protectively around her, as if he could physically block the world from ever touching her again. For a man known for intimidation and iron control, the way he held her was almost reverent. The faint trace of her vanilla shampoo—somehow stubborn enough to survive hospital soap and disaster—cut through the sterile air. It grounded him. Anchored him. Reminded him that she was here. Breathing. Alive.
