Third Person
Three weeks passed.
Vance did not move.
The hospital room became his entire world—white walls, steady monitors, the quiet rise and fall of Azrion’s chest. Hunger dulled. Thirst faded. Time lost meaning. He sat in the same chair day after day, fingers wrapped around Azrion’s unmoving hand, as though letting go might finally make it real.
This was why he had rejected him.
This was why he had endured twelve years of loneliness.
To protect him.
And now Azrion had thrown it all away.
“How could you do this to me?” Vance whispered hoarsely one night, silver eyes burning. “How could you decide my life wasn’t worth keeping you alive?”
No answer came.
The door creaked softly.
Azrion’s fingers twitched.
Vance froze.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—Azrion’s eyes opened.
Blue. Cle
