↳ 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐑 ー 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘

𝐋𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 ー 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭

◉

With a sharp gasp, Renée wakes. Blindly feels around the hospital bed which she's currently supine on, exploring the thin blanket and the scratchy gown.

It's not until her hand ghosts near to her stomach that she collects the memories of what happened. The very reason why she's here, greeted by bland walls, hearing a fastening beep of a monitor that was previously calm.

Grayson. His mouth on hers, his hands on her body, his knife in her gut. She cringes at the thoughts and instantly removes the IV, tugging on various wires and further disturbing the peace as machines bellow after her.

The patient in the bed to her left doesn't even stir. He remains in a deep slumber while she hobbles from the bed, gathering her few belongings left on the vacant chair; her shoes which somehow didn't get ruined and her phone.

After discovering a set of spare clothes left unattended by a staff member, she changes into them and carefully exits the locker room. Fortunately everyone is so busy with the influx of wounded civilians that they fail to notice her limping by.

She pulls her hair around her face to hide her chalky complexion, though the pinched face is harder to disguise as she saunters unevenly. A hand strays to her stomach before she gives in and wraps an arm around herself.

Her other hand braces against the walls for stability until she reaches the main entrance. It's crowded. Plenty of people and space to cover her as she exits the building.

"Renée."

She almost loses her footing, managing to grip the back of the row of chairs before caving. That's a voice she'd recognise anywhere.

"Rick."

He wants to smile when she faces him but his concern wins the battle. She somewhat swallows a pained moan and he's by her side in a flash, cautiously slipping an arm around her. He's pleased that she doesn't push him away.

"You shouldn't be on your feet."

He smells the same. Sandalwood. He smells like the outdoors. A long, adventurous walk in a forest filled with giant trees and exotic animals. Freedom. That's what he smells like.

"I have to leave. I have to get away." She warily glances over his shoulder, expecting to see a pair of arctic eyes fixated on her.

"My car is outside." He nods in the direction of the sliding doors. They're stuck permanently open due to the rush of people coming and going.

Renée is oddly grateful to catch the tattoos peaking from the neck of his shirt. That familiar black piercing in his left ear, the slicked back hair, jet black with a loose curl against his forehead that refuses to be tamed.

She shakes her head. "I can't go with you."

"Renée, don't be like this."

"They'll kill me just for talking to you."

"They won't."

She wants to scold him for sounding so certain, so confident that it comes off as arrogant. Not that he ever cared about that. Why would a stalker, overprotective ex care about sounding arrogant?