Isla’s POV
Tears pooled in my eyes before I could stop them. He was awake. Not just awake—looking at me.
Zayne’s lips curved into that lazy, infuriating smirk he wore like armor, the one that always said he was in control even when the world was burning. It didn’t belong to a man lying in a hospital bed, pale, stitched, hooked up to machines that beeped too steadily for my comfort.
“You look like you’re about to cry,” he murmured, voice rough, low. “That’s new.”
I laughed weakly, the sound breaking apart halfway. “You were shot.”
“And yet,” he said, eyes flicking lazily over my face, “still devastatingly handsome.”
He didn’t lie, not even a bit. He was still every handsome.
I swiped at my cheeks, furious at myself for letting the tears fall. “You’re unbearable.”
“Mm. You missed me.
