157
The morning light seeped softly through the hospital room’s pale curtains, casting a gentle glow over the machines that hummed quietly around Alexander’s bed. The sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee that Yalda had insisted on bringing in herself.
Alexander stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open to find her already sitting beside him. She was awake before dawn, her face pale but determined, a softness in her eyes that hadn’t faded despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her body.
“Good morning,” she whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He blinked slowly, still groggy. “Morning.”
Yalda didn’t speak. Instead, she reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and helped him take a few sips. His throat was dry, his lips cracked, and she gently wiped his mouth with a cool cloth.
It was a small gesture, but to Alexander, it felt almost unbearable. He hated the way she hovered so closely, the way her eyes searched his face with a mixture of worry and hope. It reminded him of the weakness she was trying to nurse away, the sickness he couldn’t escape.
As the day wore on, Yalda stayed with him without pause. She helped him sit up, adjusted his pillows, brought him food in small, careful bites, and tended to every need with painstaking care. She washed his face with gentle hands, smoothed his hair back, and kept a close watch on the machines, noting every beep, every change.
To an outsider, it was an act of love. To Alexander, it felt like a cage. He felt useless and weak.
He was regaining strength, yes, but the constant attention suffocated him. He was tired of feeling like a patient, tired of being treated like he was fragile or broken beyond repair.
During a rare moment when Yalda stepped away to fetch a blanket, he closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. He wanted to tell her to stop, to stop acting as though the end was imminent, to stop reminding him that he was sick.
But the words lodged in his throat.
When Yalda returned, the air between them felt thick and tense. She smiled softly at him, holding the warm blanket in her hands.
“Here,” she said, draping it over his shoulders.
He opened his eyes and grabbed her wrist suddenly, pulling her down with surprising strength until their faces were just inches apart.
Yalda froze, breath catching as his lips hovered close to hers. His grip was firm but not unkind, the fire in his eyes fierce and raw.
“Stop,” he murmured, his voice low and strained. “Stop treating me like I’m going to die this very minute.”
She swallowed hard, searching his face. “I’m not trying to....”
“Stop reminding me I’m sick,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing over her wrist, where his fingers held tight. “I’m still here, Yalda. Still strong enough to get things done.”
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She had never seen him like this; so vulnerable, yet so defiant.
“I’m not giving up on you,” she whispered.
He shook his head slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you to treat me like I’m fading.”
Yalda’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she didn’t pull away.
“I’m not pitying you,” she said firmly. “I’m trying to help.”
Alexander’s eyes searched hers, and for a moment, the hospital room seemed to hold its breath. He knew, he knew she was trying to help. But it wasn't her responsibility to do this, she didn't deserve any of this but at this point he couldn't push her away even if he wanted to.
“Then don’t hold me like I’m a dying man,” he said finally. “Hold me like I’m the man you fell in love with.”
Yalda’s chest tightened, and slowly, she leaned in closer, their foreheads nearly touching.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
He closed the distance between their lips.
At first, it was tentative; a brush of lips, soft and trembling. The faintest connection. But the moment their mouths met, something broke loose inside her. She let out a shaky breath against his lips, and he inhaled her like she was air after drowning.
His hand rose slowly, shaky, but certain to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer.
The second kiss was different. It was Hungrier and deeper. Her lips parted with a soft gasp, and his tongue slipped into her mouth, tentative but desperate, tasting her like he had been starving.
She met him halfway, matching the rhythm, the fire. Their tongues tangled, explored. Heat rushed down her spine, pooling low in her belly as she tasted the faint sweetness of the coffe he’d been sipping earlier, the salt of need, the familiar ache of memory.
He tasted like longing. Like yesterday. Like everything she’d once clung to and tried to forget.
Yalda moaned into his mouth, helpless against the way her body leaned into his. One of her hands slipped into his hair, fingers threading through the strands she’d once adored, tugging just enough to make him groan.
The kiss deepened.
He tilted his head, angling their mouths just right, and sucked gently on her lower lip before diving in again. The warmth of his tongue, the glide of it against hers, was maddening. She felt drunk on it, on him. His scent, despite the sterile room, was still unmistakably his. Still Alexander. Earthy and clean, a touch of sandalwood clinging to his skin.
Her thighs clenched instinctively.
His free hand, the one not tangled in her hair, ghosted over her waist, gripping her gently, grounding her. Even weakened, he held her as if he never wanted to let her go.
And for a moment, she didn’t want to go either. Eventually, breath became a necessity neither could ignore. She pulled back, barely, her forehead resting against his, her eyes fluttering open.
His lips were red, glistening. His chest heaved. He looked at her like she was both salvation and punishment. But th
ey weren't satisfied; the looks in their eyes invited each other in once more.
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