The room is dim, the light softened to a hush.
Every surface is crowded with flowers—white, pale pink, deep crimson—so many that the hospital room no longer feels like a place of illness. It looks more like a quiet flower shop frozen in time.
Rion lies beside me, one arm wrapped securely around my waist, holding me as if I might disappear if he loosens his grip. His breathing is slow, even. Peaceful.
I stare at him.
When he sleeps, he looks… different.
The sharp edges melt away. His lashes rest against his cheeks, his hair falling untidily over his temple.
Without thinking, my hand rises.
My fingers gently brush his hair back.
"…He looks cute," I whisper, barely audible.
Before I can pull my hand away, his fingers close around my wrist.
"Now you admit it," he says, voice still rough with sleep as his eyes open slowly. "That means I'm your type."
I freeze.
Then glare at him.
"Rion," I snap, mortified, "you were pretending to sleep?!"
