The sobs eventually burned themselves out.
Leah didn't know how long she stayed pressed against Izana—time had dissolved into nothing but shaking breaths and the fragile pressure of his arms around her—but eventually her body reached its limit. The violent convulsions softened into uneven tremors, then faded into exhausted stillness. Her breathing slowed, rough and raw, her chest aching with every inhale.
She was the one who let go first.
Not suddenly—never suddenly—but with careful restraint, as if afraid the moment would splinter if she moved too quickly. Her hands slipped from his arms, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary before she drew them back to herself.
Izana felt the loss immediately.
His arms hovered uncertainly in the air for a heartbeat, as if unsure whether he was allowed to keep holding her. Slowly, awkwardly, they fell back to his sides. The sudden absence of her warmth left his chest feeling strangely hollow.
"I'm… okay," Leah whispered, though her voice betrayed her—hoarse, fragile, exhausted. "I'm sorry."
Izana's head snapped up slightly beneath the blindfold. "Don't," he said at once. His voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable firmness to it. "Don't apologize for that."
She wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand, smearing tears she no longer had the energy to care about. Her eyes burned. Her head throbbed.
"I didn't mean to—." she started.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he interrupted quietly. After a pause, he added, more uncertainly, "You… you don't have to explain. Not now."
That seemed to ease something in her. She nodded faintly, drawing in a shaky breath.
They sat there for a moment, the quiet heavy but not uncomfortable—just full. Full of everything neither of them had the strength to say.
Leah glanced toward the bathwater, now dulled and cooling, steam long since faded.
"We should… finish," she said gently. "You'll get cold."
Izana hesitated. Care like this still felt unfamiliar—unsettling in how gentle it was—but refusing now felt impossible.
"…Okay," he murmured.
She helped him reposition in the tub, movements slow and deliberate. She narrated softly as she worked, letting him know what she was doing before she did it so he wouldn't startle.
"I'm just rinsing your hair," she said quietly. "Tell me if the water's too hot."
"It's fine," he replied, though his shoulders remained tense.
She washed him carefully, respectfully, avoiding places she knew were still sensitive. Her touch was steady, never rushed. The curse stirred beneath his skin—watchful, restless—but it did not rise. Not now. It lingered, waiting.
When the bath was finished, Leah wrapped a thick towel around his shoulders.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
"I think so," he said, though the hesitation in his voice said otherwise.
He tried.
His knees buckled almost immediately.
"I've got you," Leah said instantly, bracing him with her own body before he could fall.
Izana sucked in a sharp breath. "Sorry—."
"Stop," she said, more firmly than before. "You don't need to keep saying that."
He went quiet, then nodded. "…Okay."
They moved slowly—painfully slowly—back toward the bedroom, every step an effort for him, every movement reminding her just how little strength he still had.
When they reached the bed, she helped him sit.
"I'll get you clean clothes," she said softly.
He nodded.
Leah returned with a fresh shirt and loose pants. She knelt in front of him, hesitating only a moment before reaching for the towel around his shoulders.
"I can help," she said. "If that's okay."
"…It is," he answered, quiet but certain.
She eased the towel away and carefully lifted the clean shirt. As she helped guide his arms through the fabric, her gaze dropped—just for a moment.
The word carved into his chest was still there.
MONSTER.
Her hands stilled.
She hadn't meant to stare, but she did—her eyes tracing the uneven edges, the faint scar tissue around it, the way it sat so starkly against his too-thin frame. Her throat tightened.
Izana noticed.
He always noticed.
"You're looking," he said quietly.
Leah startled, immediately dropping her gaze. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—."
"It's fine," he interrupted, not sharp, not angry. Just calm. Honest.
She hesitated, then admitted softly, "I just… it hurts to see."
There was a pause.
Then Izana spoke again, voice low, almost hesitant.
"…You can touch it," he said.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"If you want," he clarified. "You can. I won't—." He stopped, swallowed. "I trust you."
The words landed heavier than anything else he had said.
Slowly—carefully—Leah lifted her hand. Her fingers hovered just above his chest, giving him time to change his mind.
He didn't.
She placed her fingertips gently over the scar.
Izana inhaled sharply—not in pain, but in something closer to surprise. His shoulders tensed for a second… then eased.
"It's not what you are," Leah whispered, her voice breaking just slightly.
He didn't answer. But he didn't pull away either.
After a moment, she finished helping him dress, her touch steady again, reverent.
When he was settled, she guided him down onto the bed, adjusting the pillows until he was properly supported.
He lay there, breathing shallowly.
"…Thank you," he said after a moment.
She shook her head. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do," he insisted softly. "I want to."
She didn't argue. She just nodded once.
Leah fetched water and placed it within reach. When everything was settled, she dragged the armchair closer to the bed and sank into it with a tired exhale.
"I'll be right here," she said. "Get some rest."
Izana turned his head slightly toward her voice. "You're… not leaving?"
"No," she said without hesitation. "I'm staying."
"…Good," he murmured.
Her eyes drifted shut before she realized it. Emotional exhaustion claimed her quickly, her body finally surrendering to the quiet.
Izana woke hours later.
The room was dim, curtains drawn tight. For a moment, disorientation flickered through him—then memory returned in fragments. The bath. Her tears. His arms around her.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.
Leah was asleep in the armchair beside his bed.
Her posture looked uncomfortable—curled slightly inward, arms wrapped around herself, head tilted to the side. Her face was still faintly blotchy from crying. She looked smaller like this. Younger. Unprotected in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.
She had stayed.
The realization settled into his chest with quiet weight.
"I didn't deserve that," he whispered to the empty room.
His fingers twitched against the sheets, aching to reach out—but he didn't. He didn't want to wake her.
I did this.
The memory of ordering her away surfaced unbidden, sharp and merciless. He had told himself it was protection. That distance equaled safety.
Instead, it had left her alone. Bruised. Breaking.
His jaw tightened.
"I failed you," he murmured.
The door creaked softly.
Izana stiffened. "—Who's there?"
"It's just me," Elias said gently.
Izana relaxed, though he didn't respond.
Elias stepped inside, cane tapping once against the floor before he stopped. His gaze moved from Leah asleep in the chair to Izana.
"She stayed," Elias observed.
Izana swallowed. "I didn't ask her to."
"No," Elias said quietly. "You didn't need to."
After a moment, Elias added, "You look… different."
Izana scoffed weakly. "I'm still barely half-dead."
"That's not what I meant."
Izana frowned slightly. "Then what?"
"You're present," Elias said. "You haven't been, before."
Izana was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, "I shouldn't have sent her away."
Elias didn't argue.
"I thought I was protecting her," Izana continued. "I thought the curse would… reach her through me."
"And now?" Elias asked.
"Now I know my absence hurt her more."
Elias leaned heavier on his cane. "Your father didn't know how to care," His voice softened. "And neither did I, for a long time."
Izana's throat tightened. "…I don't want to be like that."
"You don't have to be," Elias said. "But you'll have to let her stay. Let her choose."
Izana glanced toward Leah again. "She doesn't look at me like I'm dangerous."
"No," Elias agreed. "She looks at you like you're human."
"…I don't deserve that."
"No one ever thinks they do," Elias replied. "That doesn't mean they're wrong."
When Elias left, the room felt warmer.
Leah stirred not long after, blinking blearily as she straightened in the chair. "Did I fall asleep?"
"Yes," Izana said.
"…Sorry."
"Don't," he said immediately.
She smiled faintly. "How are you feeling?"
He thought about it. "Still here."
She nodded. "That's enough for today."
After a moment, Izana reached out hesitantly.
Leah noticed—and didn't hesitate.
Their fingers intertwined gently.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
Something had shifted—not loudly, not dramatically—but permanently.
And for the first time, Izana believed that what was growing between them might be strong enough to survive what waited ahead.