The morning sunlight poured softly through the hospital room window, warming the sterile white walls and touching Ozan's face.
His lashes fluttered. A groggy breath left his lips as he slowly opened his eyes.
Disoriented, he scanned the room until his gaze landed on her.
Leyla.
She was curled up on the chair beside his bed, her head resting against the mattress. Her face was peaceful, though tear tracks still glistened faintly on her cheeks. One of her hands was still firmly holding his, as if she'd never let go even in sleep.
For a long moment, Ozan didn't move. He just watched her, his heart tightening in a way it never had before.
How many times had he seen her glare at him, fight him, curse him? Yet here she was—broken, vulnerable, still by his side after everything.
A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. Slowly, he raised their joined hands and brushed his thumb over hers.
Leyla stirred at the touch, her lashes fluttering open. The moment her eyes met his, her breath caught.
"Ozan…" she whispered, her voice trembling with relief and fear all at once.
Their eyes locked. No walls, no games—just raw, unfiltered emotion between them.
"Good morning… my wife," he rasped, his voice low but warm.
Tears brimmed in Leyla's eyes again. She wanted to scold him, to hit him, to hug him.