Jaan-e-Azlan❤

46

The hospital room was a sanctuary of hushed electronics and the heavy, sweet scent of white lilies and roses that Azlan had ordered to be replaced every six hours. Outside, the world was moving again, but inside these four walls, time was anchored to the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator.

Azlan hadn't moved. He sat in the rigid armchair pulled flush against her mattress, his hand a permanent fixture over hers. His shoulder had been stitched, his blood-stained shirt replaced by a dark sweater, but his face remained a map of the war he had just fought. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his gaze never wavering from her pale features.

Then, in the quietest hour of the third night, it happened.

The monitor's rhythm shifted. Mantasha's fingers, thin and pale, twitched beneath his. A small, pained furrow appeared between her brows.

"Misha?" Azlan's voice was a sandpaper rasp, barely a whisper.

Her eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of the sedatives and the trauma. Slowly, agonisingly, they opened. Her gaze was unfocused, darting around the white ceiling before finally landing on the dark silhouette beside her.

"A... Azi?"

The sound was tiny, broken, but to Azlan, it was louder than the roar of the ocean. He surged forward, leaning his forehead against the side of her pillow, his breath hitching.

"I'm here," he choked out. "I'm right here, princess. Don't move. Just breathe. Look at me."

She blinked slowly, the fog in her brain clearing as she took in his disheveled state. Her hand moved weakly, trying to find his face. He caught it, pressing her palm to his cheek, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of her skin.

"You... you look terrible," she whispered, a ghost of a smile touching her cracked lips.

Azlan let out a wet, shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I've been better. But you... you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Even with those hospital wires."

"The cellar..." Her eyes suddenly widened, a flash of terror reflecting in the dark irises as the memory of the cold and the needle-sharp pain of the knife returned. Her heart monitor began to spike. "Azi, he... Zaryab, he had a gun..."

"Shhh, look at me. Look at my eyes, Misha," Azlan commanded, his voice firming up to anchor her. He leaned in until their noses touched, forcing her to focus only on him. "He's gone. He will never, ever breathe the same air as you again. You're in the hospital. You're safe. The family is outside. You won, Misha. You fought that poison, and you won."

She let out a long, shaky breath, her body sagging into the pillows. "It felt so dark. I kept trying to find your hand... but everything was so heavy."

"I never let go," Azlan whispered, his voice breaking. "Even when the doctors told me to leave, even when they said you were slipping... I was holding you. I was trying to pull the life back into you with my own hands."

Mantasha looked at the bandage peeking from under his sweater. "He shot you. I saw it. I saw the blood..."

"It's just a graze. It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts now that you're talking to me." He kissed her knuckles, his lips lingering there. "I'm sorry, Misha. I'm so, so sorry. I promised to be your shield, and I let him get close. I let him touch you."

"No," she said, her voice gaining a tiny bit of strength. She squeezed his hand with what little power she had. "You came for me. In that dark room, I told him you would come. He tried to make me believe you wouldn't... He said you were a businessman, that you wouldn't risk everything for a 'piece of property'."