The room was quiet, almost too quiet. The faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft click of doors reminded her that the world was still turning, even though, in this small space, time seemed to have stopped.

Richard sat on the edge of the bed, his movements careful and slightly slower than usual, as if every gesture required effort. The skin on his wrists and neck had an unusual sheen—a trace of recent repairs, a reminder that he was not quite who he appeared to be. His gaze was steady, calm, yet in that steadiness there was a hint of uncertainty, almost childlike.

She stood in the doorway, holding her breath. Her heart raced, her hands clenched instinctively. She looked at him and immediately saw it: beneath his usual composure and perfectly measured posture, he was wounded, and not only in body.

He lifted his eyes, and for a brief moment, their gazes met. In the silence of the room, she felt all her fears and anxieties merge into one. He did not speak, yet his presence, his restrained breathing, and the slight tension in his shoulders spoke louder than words.

She stepped closer, carefully placing her hand over his, and felt the coolness of his skin mixed with a faint warmth. Richard gave a slight nod, barely noticeable, as if acknowledging that now, in this room, they could simply be together—no masks, no instructions, just together.