CHAPTER 20
ARIA
It’s been a day since they discharged me, but everything still feels foggy—like I’m walking through someone else’s memory.
The hospital walls may be behind me now, but the questions are louder in their absence. I still can’t recall how I ended up there, or what exactly happened before I woke up in that sterile bed.
Every time I tried to ask, the doctor dodged the answers with a polite smile and vague reassurances.
“You just need rest,” he kept saying.
But rest doesn’t fill in the blanks. It doesn’t explain the sharp pulse of fear that rises when I close my eyes, or the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with healing.
I didn’t sleep last night.
I couldn’t.
So the moment they let me leave—still in a hospital-issued hoodie, my shoes barely laced—I went straight to see him.
Lian.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I opened the door to his room.
Certainly not the quiet that greeted me.
The moment I stepped inside, his eyes found mine—steady and unblinking, like he’d been waiting all along.
Like he’d known I was coming.
Something in his gaze made me falter, my steps slowing without permission.
There was a weight in the way he looked at me—steady, unblinking—and it stole the air right out of my lungs.
My lips parted, then pressed together again, suddenly dry.
I managed a small, uncertain wave, though my chest had gone tight, like it was bracing for something I couldn’t name.
I forced myself to look away, shaking off the intensity of it all.
Before I could second-guess myself, my legs moved on their own, carrying me toward him—drawn by something deeper than thought.
He watched me cross the floor to the cupboard. I try not to rush. The latch clicks open and I pull out the first aid kit. The handle is cold in my grip, too aware of his gaze lingering on me.
I walk over, the first aid kit held carefully in my hands. There’s no tension in his face today—just quiet observation.
Despite the chains, despite the bruises, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes.
Not just awareness—something softer.
Warmer.
It steals my breath a little.
“Hey,” I say, offering a small smile.
“How are you feeling today?”
I don't expect an answer, not really—but part of me hopes he'll say something.
Anything.
He's sitting up this time, not slouched or curled against the wall like I’d seen him before.
His posture was straighter.
There was color in his face again. Life.
And something else.
A faint smile.
It barely curved his lips, but it was there—subtle, fleeting—and it struck me more than anything else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile before, not even a shadow of one.
Not like this.
He didn’t look broken today.
He looked like someone who’d clawed his way back from the edge.
I kneel beside him and place the kit down. The antiseptic bottle clicks open.
The sharp scent rises between us.
“Thought I’d check your wounds,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
It sounded steadier than I felt.
“They still need cleaning.”
Lian didn’t respond.
He just kept watching me, eyes so dark and still, like they were memorizing the way my hands moved as I opened the kit.
I glanced at the antiseptic, then back at him.
“Ready?” I asked softly.
He nods, eyes steady on mine.
My gaze drops to his side.
I hesitated, studying the lines of red and purple scattered across his side and arms.
Some still looked raw.
Angry.
“It might sting a little,” I added, already shaking my head with a wry huff.
“Though I guess… after everything, you probably don’t feel this sort of pain anymore.”
He makes a small sound—half amused, half weary—but says nothing.
I soak the cotton and press it gently to the worst gash.
He flinches.
I lean in, blowing softly over the spot to cool it.
A reflex.
Something instinctive.
When I glance up, he’s watching me closely. There’s something in his eyes—calm, focused.
Almost tender.
Like every small thing I do matters.
I could swear there was something like amusement in the way he tilted his head, like he found my concern… odd.
Maybe even endearing.
I dabbed a cotton pad in the antiseptic and gently touched it to the worst of the wounds.
For a moment, everything else falls away—the stale air, the hum of the overhead lights, even the ache still lingering in my limbs. It’s just him and me, tucked into this small, silent space.
A fragile stillness settles between us, held together by the quiet rhythm of breath and touch, the slow act of tending to his wounds.
I dab gently at a streak of dried blood along his ribs, frowning at the bruising beneath.
“Your wounds are healing… but they still look painful.” My voice is softer than I expect.
“I wish I could do more. I wish you didn’t have to endure this every day.”
His shoulder lifts in a slow shrug, but there’s a flicker in his eyes when he speaks.
“They’re healing because of you.”
The words catch me off guard, stopping my hand mid-motion.
I glance up—and he’s looking at me with something quiet and raw, something unspoken that pools behind his tired gaze. It makes my breath catch.
I look away quickly, heart thudding, and shift my focus to his forearm.
Smaller cuts crisscross his skin—old and new, angry red against his bronze tone.
I try not to linger, but I can’t ignore the heat radiating off his skin, or the way the chains on his wrists shift with every careful movement I make.
The soft clink of metal is a cruel reminder of everything he can’t escape.
He leans in slightly—barely an inch—but I feel it.
The air changes.
The space between us thins.
And then, his fingers brush against mine.
I pause, blinking down as he presses something small into my palm.
It’s warm. Smooth. Lighter than I expect.
I slowly open my fingers.
A scale.
It shimmers faintly in the low light—rippling hues of ocean blue and deep green.
Iridescent.
Alive.
I can feel the warmth pulsing from it, like it’s not just a piece of him, but still connected somehow.
I look up, startled, and his eyes meet mine with quiet intent.
"W-whats this?"
“It’s part of me,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s a weight beneath it.
“I want you to have it.”
I run my thumb along the edge, awed by how something so small could carry so much meaning.
It almost doesn’t feel real.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he adds gently, watching me.
“Not now. But maybe later.”
Something in my chest tightens.
I want to say something—anything—but the words don’t come.
So I just nod, then close my fingers around the scale like a secret and tuck it safely into my pocket.
When I return to the last of his wounds, the chains clink again. But somehow, they feel… less cruel now. Less suffocating.
As if, for a moment, he isn’t just the prisoner.
And I’m not just the girl with questions no one will answer.
We're something else. Something neither of us can quite name yet.
But it’s there—quiet, and growing.