"Leon?" Mia's voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling, uncertain, disbelief and concern tangling in one breath. "What are you doing here? You're sick. You're not supposed to be here."
He stood before her, his silhouette outlined by the faint silver light streaming through the half-open balcony curtains. His skin was pale, his eyes dim yet burning with something fierce—something desperate. He looked nothing like the strong, composed prince she once knew; he looked broken, fragile, haunted by something deeper than pain.
"Mia," he said softly, his voice cracked but earnest. He took a cautious step forward, his hand gripping the frame of the bed for support. "Please… I know I've hurt you, I know I've done things that no apology can erase. But please, forgive me. I can't—" his voice wavered, his throat tightening, "I can't live without you."
