❝𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓'𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒓.❞
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There's a saying that one is entitled to keep whatever they find but the question is: can you always keep what you find?
Wren Ashenherst was raised as a boy and expected to live under the...
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her mind's doubt
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Naya was telling me about a work event that she would be busy on for the next few weeks when the door to my ward clicked opened and Ismael appeared right through. He wore a gentle smile as he walked towards me and cupped my face between his warm palms. Ismael laughed lightly, "You look like crap, precious."
Frowning a little, I exhaled, "Gee, thanks."
"I'm simply joking," Ismael grinned cheekily. "You're still the most beautiful even with one collapsed lung."
"You don't mean that," I rolled my eyes at him, earning another chuckle from Ismael before I caught a familiar scent of tobacco from his hands. I sniffed and mentioned, "You smoked."
"I did," Ismael admitted, pulling his hands away from me. "Just a stick."
"Who did you smoke with?" I questioned, not letting this matter off.
"I smoked by myself, precious."
"Aillard, right?" I rebuked. "The both of you—"
The sudden agitation caused me to inhale more air than needed as my breath hitched, nearly sending me into the pain of another round of hacking coughs. Beside me, Naya smoothed her hand over my chest and scolded, "Unbelievable, girlfriend. You're about to die from your own punctured lung and you still care about the other two men and their smoke."
"My bad, my bad," Ismael said apologetically. "Don't get too agitated, precious. The last thing I want to hear is a good scolding from Mallory."
"Ismael," I called.
"Hmm?" Ismael responded, carefully putting me back against the bed as he pulled the blanket up to cover me.
"What did the both of you talked about?"
"I simply visited him to see if he's dead," Ismael laughed, obviously adverting the conversation away. "Unfortunately, he's still alive and kicking."
