𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐛𝐧𝐡𝐚 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬

[49]

Two of hearts

49

___

Y/n's eyelids fluttered open, her senses slowly coming back to life as she was met with the blinding, sterile brightness of a hospital room. The light overhead was harsh, piercing through the hazy fog that clouded her vision. She blinked a few times, trying to clear the blur from her eyes, but everything around her still seemed distant, as though she were looking at the world through a thick, frosted glass.

Her head felt heavy, and her thoughts were sluggish, like they were wading through molasses. She tried to make sense of her surroundings, but all she could perceive at first were the dull, rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor beside her, and the steady whoosh of the oxygen machine that accompanied each breath she took. It was only when she slowly turned her head to the side that she started to piece together where she was.

Wires and tubes snaked across her body, connecting her to various machines that beeped and clicked with an unnerving consistency. The soft hiss of the oxygen mask strapped to her face echoed in her ears, a constant reminder of how fragile she felt at this moment. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, tentative breaths, each one causing a sharp pain that radiated through her ribcage, making her wince. Her mind was groggy, weighed down by a combination of painkillers and exhaustion, but there was a faint, persistent ache beneath it all, a discomfort that lingered just out of reach, reminding her of the events that had led her here.

With a deep breath—one that hurt more than she expected—Y/n attempted to sit up, but her body immediately protested. Her arms, weak and trembling, barely managed to lift her from the bed before they gave out beneath her. She collapsed back onto the mattress, her chest burning from the effort, a gasp of pain slipping from her lips. The movement sent a shockwave of agony through her entire body, her ribs feeling like they were on fire, every breath a new source of torment. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself against the overwhelming pain that pulsed through her.

Slowly, inch by painstaking inch, she forced herself upright, her muscles straining with the effort. Her hands fumbled for the railing on either side of the bed, her fingers gripping the cold metal as she tried to push herself up. It was a struggle—every movement felt like it was tearing her apart from the inside—but eventually, she managed to prop herself up against the headboard of the hospital bed, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as she leaned back, exhausted from the effort.

As her vision cleared a bit more, Y/n took in the room around her. The walls were a sterile white, the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air, mingling with the faint, floral scent of the many bouquets scattered around the room. Get well soon cards and colourful balloons decorated the small space, adding a touch of brightness to the otherwise clinical environment. It was overwhelming, the sheer number of them—each one a reminder of the people who cared, the people who had been worried about her.

But then her eyes drifted to the corner of the room, and her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat.

There, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair, was her father—Matteo, the man she had known as Scorchrend. He was fast asleep, his head tilted at an awkward angle, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked... different, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. The usually impeccable, sharp-edged man was gone, replaced by someone who looked dishevelled, tired. His usually pristine suit was wrinkled, his hair was tousled, and there was a faint shadow of stubble on his jawline—something that felt so out of place, so foreign, considering how he usually kept himself so perfectly groomed.