Finding Obsidian

48 - A Good Kind Of Lie

My eyes fluttered open.

At first, it was difficult to tell that I was in a hospital. Instead of the usual fluorescent lights, the room was lit with a warm, honey-like glow. Instead of staunch sheets and stiff hospital wear, I was dressed in an oversized hoodie and pyjama pants, lying on a soft feathery bed. Instead of the permeating scent of formaldehyde, I was met with the comforting aroma of lilies and shampoo.

I frowned. Shampoo?

Ignoring my aching neck, I turned my head to the left. I spotted an IV inserted in my hand. My breath caught when I saw a familiar mess of dark hair slumped on a chair, head lying on the edge of my bed, asleep. 

Rian.

I smiled, attempting to lift a hand to brush away the black locks hanging askew on his forehead. It was only when my hand refused to move that I realized he had it wrapped up in both his own, cradled near his chest.

Something in my own chest swelled, the sensation suspiciously warm and fuzzy. How exactly had I managed to stay away from him so long?

A quiet groan distracted me from my thoughts. The hands on mine tightened infinitesimally, just until their owner managed to prop his head up. Brow furrowed with fatigue, he opened his eyes.

"Finally," I teased, the sound of my voice startling the sleep from his face. "Sleeping beauty wakes."

The joke went unanswered as Rian's eyes settled on me, wide with shock. I squeezed the hand in his grip, sending his disbelieving gaze down to our intertwined fingers.

"You're awake," he said, his voice soft and raspy. It was more like a question than a statement; a feeling which was only emphasized when he glanced back up at me, uncertain.

I tried to lighten the atmosphere again. "There's such a thing as too much beauty sleep, you know."

But Rian wasn't having it. He was still staring at me like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. 

"Rian?"

At the sound of his name, he released a huge, shuddering breath. He let his head drop back down to the bed, resting his forehead on my knuckles. 

"You're awake," he murmured again, his voice weak with relief. "You're alright."

Without sparing another second, he launched himself at me. I jolted in surprise when his arms wrapped around my back, enveloping me in warmth. "Hanna," he said, cheek pressed against the top of my head, as though just the sound of my name was enough to satisfy, calm, excite him.

Slowly, I raised my hands so they were pressed against his back, melting into his body. "What?" I replied, the beginnings of a smile playing at my lips.

He pulled back to look me in the eyes, that same awed, tender glint shining out of his own. I smiled.

"Are you fucking insane?"

I blinked, the smile freezing on my face. That sounded like neither awe nor tenderness. "Huh?"

He pulled away completely, ruffling an agitated hand through his hair. "You got kidnapped?" he said, the anger in his voice clear now. "Less than 24 hours after you left my house? How is that even possible?"

I scowled, my anger rearing its head. "Are you serious? You're blaming the victim?"

"Of course I'm blaming you!" he answered, getting up to pace the lavish hospital room. "You don't understand. I was in my car, I was driving, and then I get this call." He squeezed his eyes shut as though he were in pain, and my anger faltered. "From Rokim. Hanna's missing, he says. Missing. No one can contact her, her apartment door is unlocked, there's laundry everywhere." His voice dropped and he rubbed his hands on his face. "I couldn't—I nearly caused an accident, I turned around so fast."